THE 


FOUNTAIN  AND  THE  BOTTLE ; 

COMPRISING! 

THRILLING  EXAMPLES 

i  . 

OF  THE  OPPOSITE  EFFECTS  OF 

TEMPERANCE  AND  INTEMPERANCE. 


EDITED  BY 


4 


21  Son  of  temperance. 

L  \ 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED  BY  HORACE  WENTWORTH, 

86  WASHINGTON  STREET, 

1851. 


t 


—  — ■  ■  — — - - - - - . 

Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

CASE,  TIFFANY  A  N  1)  C  0., 

in  the  Office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Dis^ 

trict  of  Connecticut. 


PREFACE. 


The  motive  which  has  influenced  the  editor  in  the  pre 
paration  of  this  volume,  is  to  furnish  a  standard  reading  book 
for  the  temperance  fireside,  and  the  family  circle  of  all  who 
are  interested  in  the  great  work  of  benevolence  now  going 
on  among  our  fellow  men.  That  work  has  been  faithfully 
carried  forward  amid  every  difficulty.  In  all  parts  of  our 
land  where,  but  a  few  months  since,  we  might  have  found  the 
haggard  and  wan  face,  and  withered  form  of  a  heart-broken 
wife,  toiling  incessantly  in  a  wretched  hovel  to  earn  a  scanty 
morsel  of  bread  for  her  starving  children,  we  may  now  dis¬ 
cover  the  glad  hearts  and  cheerful  faces  of  that  wife  and 
those  little  ones,  gathered  round  a  pleasant  fireside,  no 
longer  dreading  the  return  of  the  father  in  anticipation  of 
abuse  and  outrage,  but  fondly  clinging  to  him  as  their  pro¬ 
tector,  and  gratefully  blessing  his  reformation  as  productive 
to  all,  of  health  and  contentment,  peace  and  plenty. 

The  victim  of  intemperance  is  not  now  shut  out  from  the 
sympathy  and  kind  attentions  of  his  fellow  men,  as  one 
stricken  with  the  plague,  fit  only  to  die.  Kind  and  sympa¬ 
thizing  hands  are  every  where  offered  to  pour  the  oil  and 
wine  of  pity  and  hope  into  his  desponding  heart;  to  teach 
him  to  rise  above  the  state  into  which  he  has  fallen — to 
shelter  him  in  the  ark  of  total  abstinence,  from  the  flood  of 


VI 


PREFACE. 


folly  and  sin  that  threatens  to  ingulf  him.  He  is  now  made 
to  feel  that  he  has  friends  who  are  laboring,  hoping,  praying 
for  his  repentance  and  recovery.  They  teach  him,  what  he 
too  often  forgets  or  disbelieves,  that  he  is  yet  a  man  and  has 
a  man’s  duty  to  perform.  They  show  him  his  faithful  wife — 
whose  love  he  has  so  long  repaid  with  slights,  and  whose 
counsels  he  has  spurned — they  show  her  to  him,  watching  for 
his  return,  and  praying  for  his  reformation  through  long  and 
sleepless  nights  of  sorrow,  and  teach  him  how  he  should 
value  her  devoted  love.  They  remind  him  of  the  talents 
God  has  given,  and  still  continues  to  him,  and  of  his  faculties 
for  the  attainment  of  Heaven,  and  the  use  he  may  still  make 
of  them.  They  teach  him  that  he  can  yet  be  a  man,  and 
they  inspire  him  with  the  determination  to  be  a  good  man 
and  a  useful  man.  He  learns  to  know  wherein  his  danger 
lies,  and  he  comes  to  the  Throne  of  Grace  for  strength  to 
resist  his  temptations.  He  lives  in  daily  walk  with  God, 
depending  continually  upon  His  arm  for  the  salvation  which 
he  knows  his  own  strength  cannot  effect.  He  realizes  the 
frightful  nature  of  the  precipice  upon  the  brink  of  which  he 
has  been  standing,  and  his  heart  beats  with  gratitude  to  his 
Preserver  for  his  deliverance.  In  his  gratitude  for  this, 
other  mercies  rise  before  him,  and  the  sense  of  the  unthankful 
life  he  has  been  leading  fills  him  with  contrition,  and  makes 
him  the  more  anxious  “to  bring  forth  fruits  meet  for 
repentance.”  His  whole  life  is  changed;  he  who  was  but 
recently  a  wretched,  worthless  drunkard,  has  become  an 
attentive  husband,  a  kind  parent,  a  good  citizen,  and  an 
exemplary  Christian. 


I 


PREFACE. 


Yll 


Such  fruits  are  produced  by  the  labours  of  the  friends  of 
Total  Abstinence.  Truly  they  have  their  reward.  They 
may  not  live  to  see  the  curse  of  intemperance  wholly  taken 
from  the  land,  yet  their  cause  is  a  holy  and  a  righteous  one, 
and  it  must  finally  triumph.  And  every  effort  they  make 
for  the  propagation  of  its  principles  among  their  fellow 
men,  will  react  upon  their  own  hearts  with  a  mighty  in  flu- 
ence  for  good.  In  seeking  to  bless  others,  they  themselves 
are  doubly  blessed.  Let  them  neither  pause  nor  faint  in  the 
glorious  work. 

To  remind  them  of  past  success,  and  to  stimulate  them  to 
renewed  and  more  vigorous  efforts  in  the  future,  is  the  object 
of  this  book.  Its  contributors  are  found  among  the  most 
active  and  zealous  friends  of  the  temperance  cause,  and  at 
the  same  time  in  the  very  front  rank  of  the  authors  of  our 
times.  Their  delineations  are  drawn  from  nature  with 
masterly  hands,  and  the  pictures  they  present  cannot  fail 
to  be  gratifying  to  every  lover  of  his  fellow  man,  and  en- 
dearing  to  the  friends  of  Temperance.  In  laying  the  book 
before  the  public,  the  editor  would  say  that  he  will  be  abund¬ 
antly  rewarded  should  it  be  the  humble  means  of  enlisting 
but  one  honest-hearted  labourer  in  the  sacred  cause  of  Tem¬ 
perance — should  it  cause  but  one  brand  to  be  plucked  from 
the  burning. 

Philadelphia,  1850. 


Mike  Smiley — By  Father  Frank, . 

Emma  Alton — By  Mrs.  Caroline  H.  Butler,  .... 

The  Fear  of  Ridicule — Anonymous, . 

The  Spoiled  Child — By  D.  Strock,  Jr.,  . 

Dr.  Gray  and  his  Daughter — By  J.  R.  Orton, 

Brother  and  Sister — By  T.  S.  Arthur, . 

Charley  Randolph — By  Francis  C.  Woodworth, 

A  Single  Glass  of  Wine — By  Mrs.  R.  S.  Harvey,  . 

John  Hinckley — By  Mrs.  C.  M.  Kirkland,  .... 
The  Last  Interview — ByJD.  Strock,  Jr.,  .... 
The  Drunkard’s  Dream — From  the  Dublin  University  Magazine, 

The  Raftman’s  Oath — By  D.  Strock,  Jr.,  . . 

It’s  only  a  Drop — From  Chambers’s  Edinburgh  Journal, 

Charles  Clifford — By  D.  Strock,  Jr., . 

James  Blair — By  Grace  Greenwood,  ..... 

Karl  and  Corinne — By  Mrs.  Mary  B.  Horton, 

The  Drunkard’s  Death — By  Charles  Dickens, 

Pledge  by  Moonlight — By  D.  Strock  Jr.,  .... 
Steps  to  Ruin — By  Mrs.  Jane  C.  Campbell,  .... 
Ned  Summers  the  Cabin-boy — By  D.  Strock,  Jr.,  .  . 

TnE  Emigrant’s  Wife — By  D.  Strock,  Jr.,  .... 
The  Temperance  Lecture — By  D.  Strock,  Jr., 

The  Man  who  enjoyed  Himself — By  Henry  Travers, 

Twelve  O’clock — By  Henry  Travers, . 

Paying  for  Sport — By  Henry  Travers, . 

Locked  Out — By  D.  Strock,  Jr., . 

The  Man  who  made  a  Beast  of  Himself — By  Henry  Travers, 
The  Temperance  Grocer — By  D.  Strock,  Jr., 

George  Sandford — By  D.  Strock,  Jr.,  .  .... 


9 

48 

61 

65 

79 

102 

142 

153 

166 

177 

186 

205 

214 

235 

258 

283 

299 

319 

333 

341 

359 

372 

383 

398 

404 

411 

422 

431 

442 


*  <1 


' 

/. 


' 


* 


/ 


•  ■ 

. 


>  % 


. 


- 

. 

c 

.  -V  ,  l 

, 

y 

, 

* 

‘ 

*  • 

t 

Mike  Smiley  saying  Eugene  Ralston, . 

Ralston  at  the  Fox-hunt, . 

Results  of  Intemperance — Doings  at  Zeb's  Village  before  the 

Reform, . . 

Zeb’s  Village  after  the  Reform — Farmer  selling  his  Crop,  . 

Tailpiece, . 

Emma  Alton, . 

The  Death  of  the  First-born, . 

Headpiece,  .  . . 

Tailpiece, . . 

The  Spoiled  Child, . 

The  Drunkard  in  Prison, . 

Henrietta  Gray, . 

The  Glee  Club, . 

Tailpiece, . 

Tailpiece,  * . 

Death  of  Dr.  Gray, . 

Tailpiece, . 

Mary  and  Alfred  at  their  Mother's  Grave, 

Mary  praying  for  her  Brother, . 

Mart  visits  Alfred  in  Prison, . 

Charley  Randolph’s  Farm, . 

Death  of  Charles  Randolph, . 

Headpiece, .  .... 

Tailpiece, . 

John  IIinchley, . 

Tailpiece, . 

Headpiece, .  .... 

Tailpiece, . 


8 

20 

20 


36 

41 

47 

48 
55 
61 

64 

65 
76 
78 
82 
86 
93 
99 

101 

107 

126 

133 

147 

151 

153 

165 

167 

176 

177 
185 


(xi) 


Xll 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


The  Drunkard  and  Pat  Connel  at  the 

Tavern, 

• 

• 

201 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

204 

The  Raftmen,  . 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

205 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

213 

Ellen  Murphy, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

214 

WiTcn  Stacy,  . 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

223 

Stacy  wandering  in  the 

Woods, 

• 

• 

• 

231 

Clifford  visited  by  Greene, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

234 

Clifford  and  his  Sister, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

250 

Headpiece, 

«  • 

• 

• 

• 

258 

Death  of  Mrs.  Blair, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

265 

Tailpeice, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

282 

Corinne,  . 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

283 

Warden  and  the  Officers  at  the 

Public  House, 

• 

• 

310 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

318 

Moonlight  Excursion, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

319 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

330 

James  Boynton  after  his 

Fall, 

• 

• 

• 

332 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

340 

Storm  at  Sea, 

•  • 

•• 

• 

• 

341 

The  Wreck, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

353 

Tailpiece, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

356 

Caroline  Wooed, 

• 

• 

• 

358 

Caroline  after  her  Marriage, 

• 

• 

• 

363 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

371 

The  Harvesters  discussing  the  Temperance 

Lecture, 

• 

379 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

382 

An  Inebriate, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

383 

The  Tavern  Lounger, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

397 

Mr.  Guzzler, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

398 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

.  # 

• 

410 

Headpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

411 

Dr.  LianTFOOT, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

418 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

421 

Mr.  Gnipen  wheeled  home  drunk, 

• 

• 

• 

422 

Tailpiece, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

430 

The  Temperance  Grocer, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

431 

A  NiGnT  Scene, 

•  • 

• 

• 

• 

437 

Meeting  of  the  Brothers 

f  • 

• 

• 

• 

445 

Tailpiece, 

»•  • 

• 

• 

• 

448 

(8) 


THE 

BANNER  OE  TEMPERANCE. 


MIKE  SMILEY. 

By  Father  Frank. 


“  Such  stuff  are  Y ankees  made  of.” 


CHAPTER  I. 

✓ 

There  is  a  small  village  on  the  west  bank  of  the 
Connecticut,  not  many  miles  from  the  point  where  the 
boundaries  of  three  states  meet.  The  houses,  at  the 
time  our  tale  commences,  were  few  and  scattered  ;  and 
there  was  nothing  in  the  aspect  of  the  greater  part  of 
them  that  would  either  attract  the  attention  or  invite 
the  stay  of  the  passing  traveller.  They  were  low, 
dark,  without  ornament,  either  of  architecture,  or  hor¬ 
ticulture,  and  almost  without  any  of  the  ordinary  signs 
of  comfort,  which  so  commonly  accompany  the  cottage 
of  a  New  England  farmer.  The  fences  which  here 
and  there  appeared  in  broken  patches,  straggling,  or 

rather  staggering  from  field  to  field,  or  from  house  to 

($» 


10 


THE  BANNER  OF  TEMPERANCE. 


house,  indicated  both  the  care  and  thrift  of  a  former 
generation  which  placed  them  there  in  due  order  and 
stability,  and  the  degeneracy  of  the  present,  which  had 
left  them  to  decay  and  the  winds.  Every  thing  about 
the  village  was  in  keeping  with  the  fences,  and,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  the  animals  and  the  children,  (I 
name  them  in  the  order  of  apparent  intelligence  and 
cultivation,)  were  in  no  keeping  at  all.  The  fields 
were  the  best  possible  illustration  that  modern  times 
can  afford,  of  the  garden  of  the  sluggard,  so  well  de¬ 
scribed  by  Solomon;  except  that,  in  this  case,  the  soil 
seemed  to  be  so  utterly  exhausted,  that  even  the  brier 
refused  to  grow  there,  and  the  thistle  scorned  to  be 
seen  in  the  stinted  growth  to  which  alone  it  could 
attain.  The  white-headed  children,  and  the  equally 
white-bodied  pigs,  among  whom  they  played  and  rolled 
in  their  dirt,  as  their  tit  companions  and  equals,  gave 
to  the  passer-by  the  only  signs  of  life  the  village  afford¬ 
ed,  save  when,  occasionally,  a  broken-down,  withered 
figure  of  a  woman,  issued  from  the  door  of  her  hut, 
to  draw  water  from  the  common  well,  or  gather  up  a 
few  chips,  or,  more  probably,  abstract  another  rail  from 
the  useless  fence,  to  keep  alive  the  scanty  embers  that 
were  smoking  on  the  cheerless  hearth. 

It  was  about  noon  of  a  sultry  day  in  August,  when  a 
traveller  on  horseback  rode  slowly  through  the  village, 
on  his  way  to  the  mansion  of  a  friend,  about  live  miles 
above,  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  but  within  the  pre¬ 
cincts  of  the  same  town,  of  which  the  villam  was  a 
part.  He  was  tall,  well  formed,  and  handsome.  His 
dress  was  that  of  a  sportsman,  and  a  beautiful  pointer 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


11 


that  panted  lazily  after  him,  with  his  feverish  tongue 
hanging  as  if  it  would  drop  from  his  mouth,  confirmed 
the  suspicion  suggested  by  his  dress.  The  horse  and  the 
rider  were  evidently  equally  languid  and  fatigued  ;  and 
at  every  cottage  as  they  passed,  there  seemed  to  be  on 
the  countanence  of  each  an  expression  of  despairing 
disappointment,  that  no  one  offered  any  temptation  for 
even  a  temporary  halt  to  man  or  beast  From  the 
outward  appearance,  a  sojourn  in  any  of  them  would 
have  been  any  thing  but  repose  or  refreshment  to  the 
traveller,  while  the  shadeless  aspect  of  the  yards  and 
fields  would  but  leave  the  horse  exposed  to  the  un¬ 
mitigated  heat  of  the  sun. 

Fatigue  and  thirst,  however,  are  urgent  solicitors, 
and,  in  their  extremes,  not  over  fastidious.  They 
would  not  be  denied ;  and  our  traveller,  after  turning 
in  disgust  from  seven,  made  a  desperate  resolve  that 
at  all  events  the  next  house  should  furnish  what  it 
could  for  his  relief.  As  he  approached  it,  his  courage 
began  to  fail,  for,  if  possible,  it  looked  more  cheerless 
than  any  he  had  passed.  But  his  mind  once  made 
up,  he  seldom  allowed  himself  to  hesitate  ;  and,  with 
a  firm  hand  he  turned  the  head  of  his  over-wearied 
beast  towards  the  door  of  the  miserable  tenement  in 
which  old  Zeb  Smiley,  familiarly  known  in  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood  as  Giant  Zeb,  had  been  for  three-score  and 
seven  years  content  to  vegetate,  and  to  see  a  numer¬ 
ous  progeny  of  stripling  giants  of  the  same  name, 
awake  to  the  same  kind  of  equivocal  life,  and  creep 
through  the  same  kind  of  semi-vegetable  existence. 
Wallowing  in  the  dirt  before  the  door,  was  the  last  of 


12 


MIKE  SMILEY. 

the  many  representatives  of  Giant 'Zeb,  to  whom  the 
name  of  Hopeful  Mike,  selected  for  its  peculiar  inap¬ 
propriateness,  had  now  become  as  familiar  as  his  own 
thoughts.  Noticing  the  first  inclination  of  the  travel- 
ler  to  turn  aside  at  his  father’s  door,  he  scrambled  up 
from  the  dirt,  shook  his  rags,  somewhat  as  a  shaggy 
water-dog  would  do  on  emerging  from  the  water ;  and 
with  a  regard  for  decency  which  appeared  singular  in 
such  a  place,  and  such  a  person,  adjusted  the  more 
important  of  them,  so  as  to  make  them  as  available  as 
possible.  Finding  that  the  traveller  was  actually  in¬ 
tent  upon  alighting,  Mike  made  bold  to  seize  the  bri¬ 
dle,  and  to  ask,  in  a  very  respectful  manner,  if  he 
might  hold  the  horse. 

“  There  is  little  fear,”  replied  the  stranger,  “  that  he 
will  attempt  to  move,  for  he  is  so  overcome  by  the 
heat,  that  he  is  scarcely  able  to  put  one  foot  before  the 
other.  If  you  will  bring  me  a  pail  of  water  I  will 
thank  you.” 

Pleased  with  any  thing  that  afforded  even  a  momen 
tary  relief  from  the  stagnant  monotony  of  mere  being, 
Mike  rushed  into  the  hovel,  and  immediately  re-ap¬ 
peared  with  an  odd-looking,  and  exceedingly  anti¬ 
quated  apology  for  a  bucket,  accommodated,  in  the  ab¬ 
sence  of  its  original  iron  handle,  with  a  rope  which  had 
seen  much  service.  He  was  followed,  on  the  instant, 
by  as  poor  and  shrivelled  piece  of  mortality  as  ever 
claimed  the  name  of  woman,  screaming  after  him  in 
a  tone  quite  above  the  practical  gamut,  between  the 
laboured  wheeze  of  the  asthma,  and  the  screech  of  ex¬ 
treme  terror.  “  You  lazy,  good-for-nothing  little  var- 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


13 


mint,  what  are  ye  doing  with  my  water  ?  Bring  it 
back,  this  moment,  or  I’ll  skin  ye  alive.” 

Surprised  at  a  sight,  so  unusual,  as  a  gentleman 
halting  at  her  door,  Mrs.  Smiley  no  sooner  put  her 
ungainly  visage  out  of  the  humble  portal  than  she 
withdrew  it  again  to  consider  what  could  be  the  pos¬ 
sible  design  of  so  unexpected  a  visit.  Unwilling  to 
intrude  upon  the  rights,  or  disregard  the  wishes  of  even 
the  most  humble  individual,  the  courteous  stranger 
approached  the  door  and  apologized  for  the  disturbance 
he  had  occasioned,  by  explaining  the  circumstance 
of  his  long  and  weary  ride  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  his 
extreme  fatigue,  and  the  absolute  necessity  of  obtain¬ 
ing  some  refreshment  for  his  horse  before  he  could 
proceed,  and  adding,  that  he  had  asked  of  her  boy 
the  favour  of  a  bucket  of  water  for  his  horse. 

True  politeness  never  fails  to  win  its  way  to  the 
heart,  even  of  a  savage.  And  he  who  would  soothe 
and  subdue  a  woman,  has  only  to  use  a  gentle  cour¬ 
teous,  conciliating  address,  and  his  purpose  is  accom¬ 
plished.  In  a  mild  and  gratified  tone,  Mrs.  Smiley 
assured  the  stranger  he  was  entirely  welcome  to  any 
thing  her  miserable  hut  could  afford,  which  was  little 
enough,  to  be  sure,  for  such  a  gentleman.  She  wished 
it  was  better,  but - 

“  I  beg  you  will  make  no  apologies,”  interrupted 
the  stranger.  “  It  is  I  who  should  apologize  for  dis¬ 
turbing  your  house,  and  not  you  for  your  lack  of 
means  to  entertain  me.  It  is  not  for  myself  that  I 
need  attention  so  much  as  for  my  beast ;  and,  if  you 


14 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


will  allow  me,  I  will,  see  what  I  can  do  for  his  re¬ 
freshment.” 

While  this  brief  conversation  was  going  on,  Mike 
had  begun  to  busy  himself  with  the  horse,  and  he 
showed  so  much  skill  and  aptness  in  hostelry,  that  the 
traveller,  when  he  turned  that  way,  was  fain  to  leave 
to  him  the  task  he  had  intended  to  perform  wuth  his 
own  hands.  Heated  and  reeking  as  the  noble  ani¬ 
mal  then  was,  it  was  as  much  as  his  life  was  worth 
to  set  before  him  so  large  a  bucket  of  water.  But 
Mike  evidently  understood  his.  business,  though  it 
w’ould  be  difficult  to  conjecture  wffiere  he  had  ever  bad 
an  opportunity  to  handle  a  horse  before,  or  to  learn 
how  he  should  be  treated.  The  operation  occupied 
some  ten  or  fifteen  minutes,  during  wdiich  the  wreary 
traveller  sat  upon  a  rude  bench,  near  the  door  of  the 
hovel,  watching  the  movements  of  the  boy,  and  wan¬ 
dering  in  himself  how  he  could  have  acquired  so 
much  knowledge  of  hostelry. 

“You  have  been  well  taught,  my  boy,”  said  he, 
“in  the  care  of  horses.  There  are  few  experienced 
grooms  who  could  have  done  it  better,  and  certainly 
none  who  wrould  have  been  more  faithful.  Where 
did  you  learn  this  art  ?” 

“  I  never  larnt  nothing,”  replied  the  boy,  still  con¬ 
tinuing  to  rub  ,dowrn  the  breast  and  legs  of  the  beast 
with  unabated  zeal,  and  occasionally  dashing  a  cool 
handful  into  his  nostrils.  “  I  never  larnt  nothing,  only 
I  heard  Jim,  the  stage-driver,  when  he  stopped  one 
day  at  Uncle  Nat’s  shop  to  have  a  shoe  fastened, 
scolding  at  Sam  for  giving  his  horses  water  to  drink 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


15 


wlien  it  would  do  them  more  good  to  put  it  on  their 
legs,  with  a  leetle  washing  of  their  tongues  and  noses, 
besides  being  a  tarnal  sight  safer  than  drinking  when 
they  were  all  in  a  lather.” 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  this  long  speech 
of  Mike’s  except  its  length  ;  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he 
had  ever  before  put  so  many  words  together  in  one 
sentence.  But  there  was  a  heartiness  of  tone  and 
accent  about  it  that  attracted  the  notice  of  the  stran¬ 
ger  ;  and  when,  a  few  minutes  after,  as  he  was  in  the 
act  of  remounting  his  saddle,  he  slipped  a  piece  of 
money  into  the  hand  of  the  astonished  and  delighted 
boy,  with  many  thanks  for  the  service  he  had  rendered, 
he  added  a  word  of  courteous  encouragement,  and  a 
prediction  that  he  would  one  day  be  master  of  a  horse 
of  his  own. 

The  suggestion  touched  the  deepest  chord  that  had 
ever  vibrated  in  the  heart  of  Hopeful  Mike.  Stag¬ 
nant  and  uneventful  as  his  brief  life  had  been,  he  had 
not  been  without  an  occasional  aspiration  after  some¬ 
thing  higher.  He  had  dreamed  of  being  something 
and  doing  something  for  himself.  He  had  even 
soared  so  high  in  his  dreams,  as  to  imagine  it  possible 
that  he  might,  at  some  future  day,  attain  to  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  a  stage-driver.  This  was  his  climax  of  human 
greatness.  He  had  never  seen  a  character  of  so  much 
importance,  one  whose  periodical  arrival  was  so 
anxiously  waited  for  and  so  heartily  welcomed,  or  one 
whose  authoritv  in  all  matters  was  so  absolute,  as  that 
of  Jim  Crawford,  the  good-natured  driver  of  the  Con¬ 
necticut  river  stage. 


16 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


♦ 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  few  days  after  this  incident,  Mike  was  indulging 
himself  in  this  day-dream  of  ambition,  as  he  lay, 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  in 
the  shade  of  the  noble  elm.  His  thoughts  could 
hardly  be  said  to  have  any  definite  shape  or  end,  but 
straggled  on  in  a  kind  of  disjointed  reverie,  occasion¬ 
ally  interrupted  by  a  low  whistling  soliloquy,  to  which 
he  was  much  addicted.  Suddenly,  his  quick  ear  was 
arrested  by  the  distant  tramping  of  a  horse.  Starting 
quickly  up,  he  was  surprised  to  see  a  noble  animal, 
which  he  recognized  at  once  as  the  same  which  now 
occupied  most  of  his  thoughts,  in  the  act  of  leaping  a 
broad  ditch  that  intersected  the  field  some  sixty  or 
eighty  rods  from  the  place  where  he  was.  He  was 
fully  caparisoned,  but  without  a  rider.  The  leap  was 
one  that  by  common  consent  would  have  been  called 
impossible ;  but  it  was  accomplished  with  apparent 
ease.  Tossing  his  head  wildly,  the  beautiful  creature, 
the  very  embodiment  of  untameable  beauty  and 
power,  flew  with  the  speed  of  the  wind  towards  a 
deep  and  broken  ravine  that  separated  the  open  field 
from  a  thick  and  tangled  wood  beyond. 

To  follow  at  the  top  of  his  speed  was  only  a  natu¬ 
ral  impulse  with  Mike.  He  did  not  ask  himself  wThat 
was  to  be  gained  by  it.  The  object  of  his  pursuit  was 
soon  out  of  sight,  but  not  out  of  hearing.  Guided  by 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


17 


his  ear,  Mike  kept  on  the  chase  till  he  caught  another 
glimpse  of  the  flying  animal  just  dashing  over  the 
brow  of  a  precipice  some  twenty  feet  high,  from  which 
he  conceived  it  impossible  that  he  could  ever  be 
brought  back  alive.  In  an  instant  more,  however,  he 
was  seen  darting  across  the  interval  below  towards 
the  river,  into  which  he  flung  himself  with  a  plunge, 
that  seemed  as  if  he  had  intended  to  span  its  entire 
breadth  at  a  leap. 

Powerfully  and  beautifully  he  dashed  aside  the 
waters,  and  was  soon  on  the  opposite  shore.  The 
bank  was  high,  steep,  and  sandy.  The  spot  where 
he  landed  was  only  a  little  narrow  shelf  of  rock,  two 
or  three  rods  in  length,  the  bank  at  either  end  being 
as  precipitous  as  that  on  the  side.  There  was  there¬ 
fore  no  escape  except  through  the  water.  Thus  sud¬ 
denly  cut  off  in  his  flight,  he  paused  a  moment  un¬ 
resolved,  and  then  plunged  in  again,  and  made  his 
way  rapidly  towards  the  other  shore. 

Mike  had  watched  all  his  motions  with  intense  in¬ 
terest,  and  well  knowing  that  his  blood  would  be 
cooled  and  his  mettle  reduced,  aswreil  as  his  strength 
much  exhausted  by  this  effort,  prepared  to  receive 
him  in  the  best  way  he  could.  Concealing  himself 
in  the  thick  bushes  that  overhung  the  bank,  at  the 
point  where,  from  the  direction  taken,  he  supposed 
the  horse  would  come  out,  he  waited  for  that  moment 
of  suspended  power,  w^hen  the  effort  to  swim  gives 
way  to  the  struggle  for  a  footing  on  the  shore ;  and 
then  suddenly  and  boldly  seizing  the  rein,  made  an 
easy  prisoner  of  the  nearly  exhausted  fugitive. 


18 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


Securing  his  charge  to  a  tree,  he  began  to  think 
that  it  was  time  to  look  for  his  master.  He  accord¬ 
ingly  hastened  towards  the  place  where  the  horse  had 
been  first  seen.  Reaching  the  other  side  of  the  gully, 
he  gave  a  loud  “halloo!”  Hearing  no  response,  he 
followed  the  track  a  few  rods,  till  it  was  lost  in  a 
small  thicket.  Repeating  his  cry  at  the  entrance  of 
the  wood,  with  a  clear,  long,  earnest  breath,  he  thought 
he  heard  a  very  indistinct  reply,  as  of  some  one  at  a 
great  distance.  Raising  his  voice  to  its  highest  pitch, 
he  reiterated  the  call.  A  low,  faint  moan,  as  of  one 
in  extreme  pafh  and  weakness,  now  fell  on  his  ear. 
Making  his  way  quickly  in  the  direction  from  which 
it  came,  he  soon  found  the  body  of  his  late  friend,  the 
young  traveller,  lying  in  a  most  painful  position, 
across  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  covered  with 
blood,  from  a  wound  in  the  head. 

Exerting  all  the  strength  he  could  command,  which 
was  very  great  for  one  of  his  years,  Mike  raised  the 
body  from  the  tree,  and  laid  it  gently  on  the  ground; 
placing  a  large  tuft  of  moss  for  a  pillow.  He  then 
ran  to  a  little  brook,  which  discharged  itself  into  the 
river,  a  few  yards  below,  and  rolling  up  two  of  the 
broadest  leaves  he  could  find  into  a  conical  form,  for 

4  7 

a  cup,  filled  them  both  with  water,  which  he  dashed 
into  the  face  of  the  wounded  man.  This  he  repeated 
two  or  three  times,  and  then,  with  a  sponge  of  moss, 
wiped  away  the  blood  from  the  temples  and  hair. 
The  sufferer  was  so  far  revived  by  these  attentions, 
as  to  open  his  eyes,  though  still  unconscious.  En¬ 
couraged  by  this  sign  of  returning  life,  Mike  renewed 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


19 


his  efforts.  At  length  the  lips  parted,  as  it  were,  by 
instinct,  and  the  cooling  draught  found  its  way  to 
the  parched  tongue  and  throat.  This  w^as  repeated 
several  times,  with  the  happiest  effect.  The  poor 
man  opened  his  eyes  again,  and  looked  about  him. 
For  some  time  he  wTas  bewildered,  and  it  was  many 
minutes  before  he  could  recall  to  his  memory  the 
countenance  of  his  kind  attendant,  or  account  to  him¬ 
self  for  his  own  singular  situation.  At  length,  after 
another  full  draught  from  the  cooling  brook,  he  was 
so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  speak.  With  the 
warmest  thanks,  and  assurances  of  a  more  substantial 
remembrance  to  his  deliverer,  from  whom  he  had 
learned  the  story  of  the  flight,  and  re-capture  of  his 
horse,  he  recounted  the  circumstances  which  brought 
him  into  his  present  sad  condition. 

He  had  set  out  in  the  morning,  on  a  fox-hunt  in 
company  with  his  friend,  Charles  Wilkins,  and  some 
of  his  neighbours.  The  party  had  separated  at  a  con¬ 
siderable  distance  from  each  other,  when  suddenly 
the  signal  was  given  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
valley,  and  all  set  off  at  full  speed  in  that  direction. 
He  was  following  rapidly,  when  another  fox  started 
from  a  little  thicket,  and  flew  across  his  track.  In¬ 
stantly  changing  his  course,  he  gave  chase,  deter¬ 
mined  to  have  the  sport  all  to  himself.  He  was  gain¬ 
ing  fast  upon  his  game,  when,  in  leaping  over  the 
fallen  tree,  where  Mike  had  found  him,  his  head  must 
have  come  in  violent  contact  with  the  projecting 
point  of  a  broken  limb,  which  he  did  not  see  in  sea¬ 
son  to  avoid  it.  Stunned  by  the  blow,  and  thrown 

3 


20 


MIKE  SMILEY 


RALSTON  AT  THE  FOX-HUNT. 


# 

backward,  he  fell  athwart  the  trunk,  with  no  power 
to  move ;  and  in  that  position  he  must  have  lain  a  full- 
half  hour  or  more,  when  Mike  discovered  him.  A 
half  hour  longer,  and  probably  life  would  have  been 
extinct. 

As  soon  as  he  felt  able  to  be  left  alone  for  a  few 
minutes,  Mike  was  despatched  for  assistance.  A  lit¬ 
ter  was  brought,  the  sufferer  was  carefully  placed 
upon  it,  and,  followed,  by  his  horse,  which  Mike  had 
the  proud  satisfaction  of  being  permitted  to  lead,  con- 


21 


i 


MIKE  SMILEY. 

% 

veyed  back  to  tbe  house  of  liis  friend,  Charles  Wil¬ 
kins. 

From  that  day  a  new  era  dawned  upon  the  hopes 
of  Hopeful  Mike.  Eugene  Ralston — for  that  was 
the  name  of  his  patron,  whose  life  he  had  so  sin¬ 
gularly  been  instrumental  in  saving — immediately 
claimed  him  as  his  own,  and,  with  the  ready  consent 
of  his  parents,  installed  him  as  groom  to  his  favourite 
charter.  His  rags  were  exchanged  for  a  neat  suit  of 

o  o  o 

iron-gray  cassimere,  a  glazed  cap  with  a  broad  gilt 
band,  and  other  equipments  to  correspond.  The  story 
of  his  kind  attentions,  and  ready  ingenuity  in  reliev¬ 
ing  the  distressed  sportsman,  as  well  as  his  success 
in  waylaying  and  capturing  his  horse,  was  in  every 
body’s  mouth.  His  name  was  honourably  mentioned 
in  the  newspapers,  in  connexion  with  the  accident 
that  had  befallen  Mr.  Ralston.  And  it  was  now  mani¬ 
fest  to.  all,  that,  if  there  was  any  thing  in  Mike  to 
build  upon,  his  fortune  was  made. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Eugene  Ralston  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  re¬ 
spectable  and  wealthy  families  in  New  England  ; 
and  Mike,  as  the  preserver  of  his  life,  was  the  object 
of  the  regard  and  gratitude  of  all  his  friends.  He  was 
immediately  placed  at  school,  where  he  made  such 


22 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


rapid  progress,  as,  in  the  course  of  a  few  months,  to 
shoot  ahead  of  some  who  had  enjoyed  the  same  privi¬ 
leges  from  their  earliest  childhood. 

Emerging  so  suddenly  from  the  total  darkness  and 
stagnant  inactivity  of  his  early  life,  into  the  broad 
blaze  of  comfort,  intelligence,  and  respectability,  it 
would  not  have  been  surprising  if  he  had  been  en¬ 
tirely  overcome  by  the  change,  and  thrown  into  the 
back-ground.  But  there  was,  in  the  original  elements 
of  his  character,  something  substantial  to  build  upon. 
He  could  not  have  remained  in  his  own  native  village 
to  the  age  of  manhood,  without  rising  above  the  level 
of  all  about  him.  And  now,  when  he  had  every  ad¬ 
vantage,  and  every  encouragement,  which  the  glorious 
system  of  New  England  education  could  afford,  he 
seemed,  almost  at  a  single  stride,  to  measure  the  dis¬ 
tance  between  midnight  and  morning — between  the 
condition  of  semi-barbarism  and  that  of  civilization 
and  refinement,  such  as  is  found  in  the  metropolis. 
Every  thing  was  new — every  thing  was  surprising. 
He  could  sometimes  hardly  believe  the  evidence  of 
his  senses,  or  realize  that  the  race  of  beings  with 
whom  he  was  now  associated  was  a  part  of  the  same 
family  with  those  among  whom  he  had  always  lived. 

He  was  less  dazzled  by  the  splendour  and  luxury  of 
the  city,  than  awed  and  elevated  by  the  sense  of  human 
power,  as  exhibited  in  the  wonderful  achievements  of 
intelligence,  skill,  and  industry.  Young  as  he  was, 
lie  perceived,  almost  at  a  glance,  that  it  was  not  so 
much  wealth,  as  a  wTell-directed  intelligence,  and  a 
high  moral  estimate  of  the  true  ends  and  aims  of  life, 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


23 


that  constituted  the  difference  between  the  state  of 
society  to  which  he  was  now  introduced,  and  that 
which  he  had  left.  And  he  at  once  resolved  that  no 
effort  should  be  wanting  on  his  part,  to  secure  all  the 
advantages  which  his  new  situation  afforded  him.  He 
therefore  applied  himself  with  a  diligence  and  zeal 
that  could  not  have  failed,  even  with  powers  far  infe¬ 
rior  to  his  own,  to  reap  a  large  and  rich  reward.  His 
progress  was  rapid  and  easy ;  so  much  so,  that  a  year 
had  not  passed  before  Mr.  Ralston  perceived,  that  to 
carry  out  his  original  design,  of  attaching  Mike  to 
himself  as  a  servant,  wmuld  be  doing  him  great  injus¬ 
tice.  He  not  only  made  himself  acquainted  with  every 
subject  that  was  brought  before  him,  but  he  mastered 
it;  as  far  at  least  as  he  had  means  to  do  so.  And  the 
attempt  to  hold  him  in  a  subordinate  situation,  could 
not  have  been  long  successful,  if  it  bad  been  made. 

It  was  as  much  to  the  credit  of  Mike’s  heart,  as  his 
progress  in  learning  was  to  that  of  his  head,  that,  from 
the  very  dawning  of  his  better  fortune,  he  never  lost 
sight  of  his  parents,  or  his  native  village.  He  denied 
himself  every  indulgence  for  the  pleasure  of  contri¬ 
buting  to  the  comfort  of  his  mother.  Many  wrere  the 
tokens  of  kindness  sent  to  her  during  the  year  ;  and 
they  were  always  such  as  were  best  adapted  to  her 
circumstances. 

It  was  nearly  two  years  from  the  time  that  Mike 
left  home,  before  he  wras  able  to  make  his  parents  a 
visit.  And  then,  when  his  old  friend,  Jim,  the  stage- 
driver,  drew  up  at  the  door  of  his  father’s  hut,  instead 
of  leaping  out,  as  he  thought  he  should,  and  shouting 


24 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


at  the  top  of  his  voice,  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  burst  into  tears.  He  had  never  realized,  till  that 
moment,  the  utter  desolation  of  the  home  of  his  youth, 
the  entire  absence  of  all  that  constitutes  the  comforts 
of  life,  in  the  lot  of  his  parents. 

“  Halloo  there,  Mike,  what  are  you  about  ?”  said 
Jim,  throwing  down  the  steps  of  the  stage  with  a  slam 
that  brought  Mrs.  Smiley  to  the  door,  to  see  what  was 
the  matter.  In  an  instant  the  tears  were  wiped  away, 
and  Mike  was  in  his  mother’s  arms.  Poor  woman ! 
she  could  hardly  believe  her  eyes.  Was  it  possible 
that  this  brave-looking  young  man  was  her  own  Mike ! 
She  put  him  from  her  a  moment ;  and  examined  him 
from  head  to  foot,  without  saying  a  word,  and  then, 
with  all  a  mother’s  heart,  strained  him  to  her  bosom, 
saying,  “  Mike,  you  are  a  good  boy,  Mike,  to  remem¬ 
ber  your  poor  old  mother,”  and  then  burst  into  tears. 
Jim  wiped  a  drop  from  his  eye,  as  he  mounted  his  box 
and  drove  off,  saying  to  himself,  “  Well,  I  have  heard 
of  people  crying  for  joy,  but  I  never  believed  it  before.” 

It  was  a  sad  visit  for  poor  Mike.  Every  blessing 
that  he  had  enjoyed  during  the  last  two  years,  every 
comfort  lie  possessed,  was  now  remembered  only  to 
aggravate  the  contrast  between  his  own  lot,  and  that 
of  his  parents.  It  made  him  perfectly  miserable  to 
look  about  him ;  for  he  felt  that  as  yet,  he  had  no 
power  to  effect  any  substantial  change  in  their  con¬ 
dition.  He  poured  out  the  fulness  of  his  heart  to  his 
mother,  who  was  so  happy  in  the  good  fortune  of  her 
boy,  as  never  to  have  thought  that  any  material 
change  in  her  own  lot  could  result  from  it. 


o 


(26) 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


27 


“  But  what  can  I  do,  mother  ?”  said  Mike,  earnestly , 
“  what  can  I  do  ?  I  must,  and  will  do  something.  It 
makes  me  perfectly  miserable  to  have  so  many  com¬ 
forts,  while  you  are  so  poor  and  wretched.  God  help¬ 
ing  me,  it  shall  not  be.” 

Starting  suddenly  up,  as  he  said  this,  he  was  met 
by  Giant  Zeb,  who  tumbled  in  at  the  door,  just  in 
time  to  hear  the  ]ast  words. 

“What’s  that  that  shall  not  be?  and  who’s  that 
that  says  so?”  stammered  the  old  man,  with  the  pe¬ 
culiar  tone  and  accent,  or,  rather,  with  the  accentless 
and  toneless  utterance  of  an  habitual  inebriate. 

Mike  wras  struck  aback  in  a  moment.  His  cup 
wras  full — he  could  not  speak.  His  father  tumbling 
stupidly  into  the  first  chair  he  could  reach,  did  not 
notice  him,  and  he  stood  a  moment  as  in  doubt 
whether  to  speak,  or  to  steal  away  and  weep  alone. 
But  the  doubt  was  instantly  dissipated  by  the  sharp 
voice  of  his  mother,  screaming  bitterly,  “  Why,  Zeb, 
so  drunk  that  you  can’t  see  Mike?” 

“Father,”  said  Mike,  extending  his  hand,  “don’t 
you  know  me  ?” 

“  Know  you  ? — let  me  see,”  replied  the  old  man, 
rousing  himself  up, — “  what  you,  Mike  ?  Why,  what 
a  fine  gentleman! — come,  go  down  to  Tim’s,  and 
treat  all  round,  by  wray  of  welcome  home.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
ha  !  Mike — fine  gentleman — plenty  of  money  now — 
let’s  have  another  drink.” 

It  was  with  much  difficulty  that  the  old  man  was 
diverted  from  this  thought.  Fie  was  too  far  gone  to 
reason.  After  some  time  Mike  succeeded  in  coaxing 


28 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


him  to  lie  down  on  the  bed,  where  he  soon  fell  into 
a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  did  not  awake  till  a  late 
hour  the  next  morning. 

Mike  did  not  close  his  eyes  that  night.  He  was  in 
a  perfect  agony  of  spirit.  The  wholeHruth  had  flashed 
upon  his  mind  in  an  instant,  when  the  giant  frame 
of  his  father,  reduced  to  the  feebleness  of  infancy, 
with  scarcely  the  instinct  of  a  brute,  left  to  guide  its 
motions,  tumbled  in  at  the  door  of  his  hut,  and  settled, 
rather  than  sat  down,  in  the  broken  chair  by  his  side. 
He  wondered  he  had  not  seen  it  before.  Here  was 
the  whole  secret  of  the  poverty  and  wretchedness 
about  him. — Rum,  rum ;  that  was  the  fire  that  had 
eaten  out  the  substance  and  the  souls  of  all  that  deso¬ 
late  village,  and  consumed  parents  and*  children  for 
many  generations.  It  was  like  a  new  revelation  to 
his  mind.  He  had  seen  men  intoxicated  a  thousand 
times  before.  He  had  seen  gentlemen,  as  they  were 
called,  carried  home  in  a  state  of  helplessness,  from 
a  dinner-party,  and  from  the  society  of  ladies,  who 
had  furnished  the  temptation,  and  plied  it  wdth  all 
the  seductive  arts  of  flattery  which  woman  has  ever 
at  command.  It  wras  a  national  epidemic ;  and  no 
eye  had  yet  been  opened  to  measure,  and  no  voice 
raised  to  deprecate  its  fearful  ravages,  though  myriads 
of  hearts  had  been  made  desolate  by  it,  though 
widows  and  orphans  had  perished  by  millions  in  its 
path,  and  the  almshouses  and  the  graveyards  of  the 
country  wTere  teeming  with  its  annually  increasing 
multitudes  of  victims. 


r 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


29 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  subject  had  taken  such  hold  of  Mike’s  thoughts, 
that  it  excluded  all  others.  He  could  not  sleep  that 
night.  He  did  not  even  attempt  it ;  but  sat  down 
near  a  little  old  table,  and  leaning  upon  his  elbows, 
with  his  face  upon  his  hands,  he  endeavoured  to  mea¬ 
sure  the  length,  and  depth,  and  height,  and  breadth  of 
that  awful  evil.  For  a  long  time  he  was  overwhelmed 
with  its  magnitude  and  omniprevalence.  To  move 
it,  seemed  like  re-constructing  the  whole  framework 
of  society.  He  did  not  know  where  it  was  possible 
to  make  a  beginning.  At  length  he  remembered  that 
nothing  was  ever  accomplished  without  a  beginning ; 
and  beginnings  always  seem  very  feeble  and  inade¬ 
quate  to  their  end ;  and  the  world  laughs  at  them. 
But  upon  them  all  revolutions  depend.  “  And  so,” 
said  he,  striking  his  hand  upon  the  table,  with  some 
violence,  “I’ll  begin:  but  how?  where?”  and  he 
pondered  long  and  deeply. 

“  Let  me  see,”  said  Mike,  at  length,  as  he  broke 
from  his  reverie,  and  drew  out  a  pencil  and  paper 
from  his  pocket,  “  how  much  does  it  cost  my  poor 
father  every  year  for .  rum  ?  He  drinks,  upon  the 
average,  and  has  done  so,  probably,  for  fifty  years, 
six  glasses  of  rum  a-day.  This,  at  four  cents  a  glass, 
is  a  quarter  of  a  dollar  a-day,  or  a  dollar  and  three 
quarters  every  week,  or  ninety-one  dollars  a  year. 


♦ 


30 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


Ninety-one  dollars  a  year  F  exclaimed  the  astonished 
youth;  “  and  this,  in  fifty  years,  amounts  to — what? 
impossible ! — four  thousand  five  hundred  and 

FIFTY  DOLLARS  !  !” 

Mike  was  overwhelmed  with  the  results  of  these 
simple  calculations.  “  Four  thousand ,  five  hundred 
and  fifty  dollars  !  for  one  man  to  consume  in  making 
a  beast  of  himself.  What  a  little  fortune  that  would 
be  !”  Mike  went  on.  “  The  man  who  spends  this  sum 
for  rum,  loses  at  least  twice  as  much  every  year,  in 
being  unfitted  for  labour ;  and  as  much  more  in  the 
waste  and  destruction  of  his  goods  and  property — the 
health  and  comfort  of  his  family  which  result  from 
intemperance.  Here  then,  is  more  than  twenty  thou¬ 
sand  dollars ,  which  one  man  has  sacrificed  to  the  ap¬ 
petite  for  strong  drink.  And  there  are — let  me  think 
— one,  two,  three — twenty  men,  in  this  poor,  desolate 
village,  each  of  whom  has  been  as  deeply  devoted  to 
his  cup  as  my  father  ;  and  what  does  all  this  amount 
to  ?  Four  hundred  thousand  dollars  !  !  Ah  !  I  see 
through  it  all ;  enough  to  make  any  man  a  prince ; 
and  this  accounts  for  the  fact,  that  Tim  Cochrane  is 
the  only  man  in  the  .village  who  owns  a  decent  house, 
or  ever  has  any  thing  comfortable  for  his  family.  All 
this  money  goes  into  his  pocket.  Ah !  I  have  it — I 
have  it - ” 

Mike  could  scarcely  wait  for  the  morning,  so  eager 
was  he  to  lay  these  astounding  results  before  his  father 
and  the  neighbours.  They  grew'  upon  his  imagination 
every  moment,  as  the  night  advanced;  and,  at  the 
earliest  peep  of  day,  having  commended  himself  and 


i 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


31 


his  cause  to  God,  he  left  his  little  room,  and  sallied 
out  into  the  field,  to  refresh  himself  for  the  day’s  work 
that  was  before  him.  He  had  found  a  place  to  begin 
it,  and  he  was  resolved,  however  hopeless  it  might 
seem,  to  begin  at  once,  and  do  what  he  could. 

He  could  not  refrain  from  opening  his  budget  first 
to  his  mother ;  for  he  felt  bitterly,  how  terribly  she 
had  suffered  from  that  dreadful  scourge.  But  the 
poor  woman  had  suffered  so  long  that  it  seemed  to  her 
as  necessary  and  unavoidable  as  death.  She  had  never 
dreamed  of  relief  or  comfort,  but  in  the  grave.  She 
stared  wildly,  when  Mike  told  her  of  the  money  that 
had  been  worse  than  wasted,  in  that  poor,  desolate  place. 
She  did  not  believe  there  was  so  much  money  in  the 
world.  “  Ah  !  it  is  no  use,  Mike,”  said  she,  “  it’s  no 
use  ;  you  might  as  well  try  to  stop  the  river  flowing.” 

But  Mike  would  not  think  so ;  and  he  waited  for 
his  father  to  rouse  himself  from  that  death-like  apathy 
But  he  found  him  a  desperately  hard  subject.  He 
would  not  believe  the  figures.  He  would  not  believe 
any  thing.  Besides,  he  could  as  well  live  without 
air  as  without  rum.  Mike  was  as  persevering  as 
his  father  was  obstinate.  He  would  not  leave 
him  till  he  had  made  him  count  it  over  his  fingers, 
and  reckon  it  up  for  himself ;  and  then  he  was  obliged 
to  acknowledge,  that  his  rum  cost  him  within  a 
fraction  of  one  hundred  dollars  a  year.  He  did  not 
suppose,  at  first,  that  he  ever  had  as  much  money  in 
any  one  year  of  his  life.  He  was  really  alarmed. 

“  But  come,”  said  he,  “let’s  go  down  to  Uncle  Nat’s 
and  see  what  he’ll  say  to  it.” 


32 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


Mike  felt  ready  to  face  the  whole  world,  for  he  knew 
he  was  right ;  he  knew  that  figures,  if  placed  right, 
always  tell  the  truth.  So  he  accompanied  his  father 
to  Uncle  Nat’s.  The  smithy  wras  next  door  to  Tim 
Cochrane’s  ;  and  there  was  never  a  shoe  set,  or  a  nail 
driven,  that  Tim  did  not  reap  the  benefit  of  it.  In 
that  smithy,  before  an  audience  of  some  ten  or  twelve 
of  the  most  ragged,  squalid,  filthy  looking  beggars 
that  were  ever  brought  together  in  one  place,  out  of 
the  almshouse,  was  delivered,  by  Mike  Smiley,  the  first 
tee-total  temperance  lecture  that  ever  was  attempted 
in  these  United  States.  The  congregation  was  motley, 
irregular,  and  not  so  thoroughly  open  to  conviction 
as  could  have  been  desired.  It  was  some  time  before 
Mike  could  gain  any  thing  like  general  attention. 
But  when  Uncle  Nat,  who  was  considered  good  at 
figures,  had  examined  the  whole  statement  carefully 
marking  it  down  with  chalk  on  the  dingy  walls  of  his 

shop,  and  finally,  though  very  reluctantly,  was  com- 

\ 

pelled  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  entirely  correct,  the 
whole  company  opened  their  eyes  wide  with  astonish¬ 
ment,  and  stood  gaping  at  each  other,  as  if  they  had 
lost  the  power  of  speech. 

At  this  moment,  Mike  jumped  upon  the  anvil,  with 
his  paper  in  his  hand,  and  commenced  a  set  speech. 
He  explained  fully  the  results  to  which  his  figures 
led,  and  showed  clearly,  that  there  was  not  a  man  be¬ 
fore  him  who  had  not  already  expended  in  rum,  and 
in  the  losses  occasioned  by  rum,  a  handsome  fortune. 
He  pointed  to  their  fields,  which  might  have  been,  if 
properly  cared  for,  as  rich  and  fruitful  as  any  on  the 


M  IKE  SMILEY. 


33 


banks  of  their  noble  river.  He  pointed  to  their  hovels, 
and  asked  what  made  the  degrading  contrast  between 
them  and  the  palaces  of  some  of  the  farmers  of  that 
beautiful  valley.  He  pointed  to  their  wives,  who 
were  little  better  than  slaves,  leading  a  miserable, 
half-starved,  comfortless  life,  in  the  midst  of  a  land 
flowing  with  milk  and  honey.  He  pointed  to  their 
children— but  he  could  not  sketch  that  picture — and 
then  to  their  own  persons,  and  the  sketch  he  gave  of 
them  was  such  as  actually  made  those  hardened  old 
sots  bl  ush  and  feel  ashamed  to  be  seen  of  each  other. 
Mike  saw  his  advantage.  “  I  am  but  a  boy,”  said 
he,  “and  why  do  I  speak  so?  Because  I  love  you. 
I  am  one  of  you  ;  bone  of  your  bone,  and  flesh  of  your 
flesh.  There  is  my  father ;  and  there,  yonder,”  wiping 
a  tear  from  his  eye,  “  my  poor  old  mother.  You  are 
all  my  friends;  and  I  cannot  bear  to  go  back  to  the 
comforts  and  blessings  which  are  provided  for  me,  in 
my  new  home,  and  feel  that  I  have  left  you  in  this 
unhappy  condition.  Have  I  not  told  you  the  truth  ? 
Is  it  not  rum  that  makes  all  the  difference  between  us? 
How  many  comforts  would  not  that  hundred  dollars 
a  year  purchase  for  your  wives  and  children  !  How 
differently  would  your  houses  look  if  you  should  spend 
it  upon  them  !  How  differently  would  you  look  if 
you  should  spend  it  in  clothing,  and  in  whole¬ 
some  food.  How  differently  would  this  whole  vil¬ 
lage  look  if  that  four  hundred  thousand  dollars, 
which  you  have  drunk  up  in  rum,  had  been  laid  out 
in  improving  your  lands,  repairing  and  ornamenting, 
your  houses,  educating  your  children,  making  your 


34 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


wives  comfortable,  and  making  men— yes,  making  men 
— of  yourselves  !  Are  you  men  now  ?  Look  at  your¬ 
selves — look  at  each  other — are  you  men  ?  Do  you 
look  as  if  you  had  minds  ? — souls  ? — -hearts  ?” 

Surprised  at  his  own  boldness,  Mike  jumped  down 
from  his  rostrum,  and  taking  his  father  by  the  hand, 
begged  he  would  forgive  him  if  he  had  spoken  too 
plainly.  The  whole  audience  was  confounded.  They 
had  been  taken  by  surprise.  Every  man  of  them  was 
convinced ;  but  habit  long  indulged  gains  a  terrible 
advantage  over  conscience.  An  impression  was  made, 
but  it  needed  to  be  followed  up,  blow  upon  blow,  to 
make  it  effective  and  lasting. 

Giant  Zeb  was  the  first  to  break  silence,  “  I  tell 
you  what,  Uncle  Nat,”  said  he,  “the  boy’s  right. 
But  what  can  we  do?” 

“  Do  ?”  answered  Tim  Cochrane,  who  stepped  in 
just  at  this  moment  from  behind  the  door,  where  he 
overheard  the  whole  ;  “do  ?  come  into  my  shop,  and 
I’ll  tell  you  what  to  do.” 

The  whole  charm  was  broken  in  an  instant.  In 
vain  did  Mike  plead  and  beseech  his  father  not  to  go. 
In  vain  did  he  remind  them  of  all  his  figures.  Uncle 
Nat  led  the  way  and  they  all  followed.  What  fol¬ 
lowed  that,  need  not  be  told. 


RESULTS  OF  INTEMPERANCE. - DOINGS  AT  ZEB  S  VILLAGE  BEFORE  THE  REFORM 


4 


■ 

\ 

•  ' 


' 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


37 


CHAPTER  V. 

Mike  made  a  very  prudent  use  of  all  the  little  sav 
ings  of  his  wages,  in  putting  the  house  into  more  com¬ 
fortable  order  for  his  mother.  When  he  returned  to  Mr. 
Ralston’s  he  took  an  early  opportunity  to  call  the  at¬ 
tention  of  that  gentleman  to  the  figures  he  had  made 
at  home.  Mr.  Ralston,  though  a  temperate  man  for 
those  days,  was  astonished  at  the  result.  He  gave 
the  subject  his  serious  attention.  He  assisted  Mike 
in  getting  at  some  further  statistics  upon  the  subject. 
Mike  pursued  it  with  the  ardour  of  a  man  whose  heart 
is  in  his  work.  The  further  he  proceeded  the  more 
he  was  astonished — overwhelmed.  At  length,  he  ven¬ 
tured  to  put  his  investigations  in  the  form  of  an  essay, 
which  he  sent  to  one  of  the  leading  journals  of  the 
city,  with  the  signature,  “  Total  Abstinence.” 

That  article  was  the  leader  of  one  of  the  might¬ 
iest  revolutions  that  ever  swept  over  the  face  of  so¬ 
ciety.  It  was  copied  into  all  the  papers.  It  attracted 
universal  attention.  It  was  talked  of  in  all  the  streets, 
and  at  every  table,  and  at  every  fireside.  It  was  fierce¬ 
ly  attacked  on  every  side,  and  that  by  some  of  the 
ablest  pens  in  the  nation.  But  its  positions  were  im¬ 
pregnable.  Not  one  of  them  was  ever  refuted,  or 
even  so  much  as  shaken.  They  are  to  this  day,  the 
grand  colossal  columns  that  support  the  central  dome 
of  the  Temple  of  Temperance. 


38 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


This  essay  was  followed  up  by  others,  by  the  same 
hand.  And  when,  by-and-by,  it  came  out,  that  the 
mover  of  all  this  far-reaching  excitement,  was  an 
humble  lad  scarcely  nineteen  years  of  age,  in  an  in¬ 
ferior  station  in  society,  the  excitement  became  still 
deeper  and  more  general.  Mike  was  called  out — not 
to  fight,  as  would  perhaps  have  been  the  case  if  all 
this  had  happened  elsewhere — but  to  explain  himself 
more  fully. 

So  well  had  he  availed  himself  of  the  advantages 
to  which  his  relation  to  Mr.  Ralston  had  introduced 
him,  that  he  did  not  hesitate,  after  consultation  with 
that  gentleman,  and  receiving  his  approbation,  to  pro¬ 
pose  a  public  lecture.  This  was  attended  by  a  crowd¬ 
ed  audience,  who  were  astounded  at  the  fearful  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  then  state  of  our  country.  So  many  de¬ 
sired  to  hear  it  who  could  not  be  accommodated,  that 
it  was  necessary  to  repeat  it.  Then  it  was  called  for 
in  other  places.  Every  where  it  produced  a  marked 
impression.  It  excited  inquiry.  It  provoked  discus¬ 
sion.  It  led  to  self-examination. 

Mike’s  hands  were  now  full.  He  had  made  his 
beginning,  and  a  noble  beginning  it  was.  But  where 
was  it  to  end  ?  What  was  the  remedy  for  the  tremen¬ 
dous  evils  that  were  consuming  the  vitals  of  society. 
On  this  point  the  young  orator  allowed  no  compro¬ 
mise.  It  was  “  total  abstinence  !  ”  and  he  laid  it  down 
with  great  emphasis,  showing  clearly  that  this  was 
the  only  ground  on  which  the  intemperate  could  ever 
hope  to  become  temperate  or  the  temperate  to  re¬ 
main  so. 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


39 


The  results  of  that  grand  moral  movement  are  well 
known.  Look  abroad  over  our  fair  land,  and  see  mil¬ 
lions  of  acres  then  arid  and  sterile,  now  blooming  and 
fruitful ;  thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  of  hearths 
then  desolate,  now  cheerful  and  bright  as  the  early 
remembrance  of  home — countless  broken  widowed 
hearts  made  whole  by  the  returning  sunshine  of  love 
and  plenty,  and  whole  families,  yea,  whole  commu¬ 
nities,  then  dispersed,  divided,  hovering  around  the 
purlieus  of  the  almshouse  or  the  prison,  now  gather¬ 
ed,  united,  industrious,  intelligent — as  if  it  were  a  na¬ 
tion  born  in  a  day,  or  a  whole  tribe  redeemed  from 
servile  bondage.  Men,  fathers,  husbands,  legislators, 
teachers,  once  raving,  delirious,  fierce,  brutal,  now 
clothed  and  in  their  right  minds,  risen  as  it  were  from 
the  second  death,  and  standing  erect,  beloved  and  ho¬ 
noured,  in  the  high  places  of  our  land. 

Discouraging  as  was  the  prospect  in  his  native  vil¬ 
lage,  Mike  did  not  despair.  He  was  frequently  there, 
and  so  diligently  and  faithfully  did  he  ply  the  argu¬ 
ments  and  persuasions  of  a  heart  warm  to  the  life  in 
his  subject,  that  he  succeeded,  at  length,  in  obtaining 
a  solemn  promise  from  his  father  that  he  would  try 
the  experiment  for  one  year.  Zeb  Smiley  was  a  man 
of  more  than  ordinary  natural  abilities,  and  his  reso¬ 
lution,  once  taken,  was  proverbially  unchangeable. 
By  his  influence,  Uncle  Nat  was  brought  to  the  same 
stand.  Both  of  them  signed  their  names  to  the  same 
paper,  and  thus  each  became  a  sentinel  over  the  other 
The  whole  neighbourhood  of  tipplers  was  in  conster¬ 
nation.  Tim  Cochrane  was  in  a  rage.  His  craft 


40 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


was  in  danger.  In  his  passion,  he  pounced  upon 
Uncle  Nat’s  forge  and  tools,  to  secure  the  balance  of 
his  score  at  the  counter,  and  turned  him  out  of  his 
shop.  The  effect  of  this  was  salutary.  Uncle  Nat 
and  Zeb  immediately  went  off  together  at  the  sugges¬ 
tion  of  Mike,  and,  by  his  aid,  secured  a  valuable  con 
tract  for  labour  in  clearing  anew  road,  which  furnished 
full  and  profitable  employment  for  the  whole  season 
They  laboured  side  by  side,  encouraging  and  strength¬ 
ening  each  other.  And  daily,  as  the  effects  of  their 
old  habits  wore  off,  and  their  strength,  physical  and 
mental,  increased,  they  found  their  toils  growT  sweet¬ 
er  and  lighter.  Mike  continued  his  labours  in  the 
village,  till  he  obtained  the  names  of  more  than  two- 
thirds  of  the  old  topers  to  his  pledge.  By  the  aid  of 
Mr.  Ralston,  he  set  up  a  temperance  store,  which 
was  kept  by  one  of  his  cousins  ;  and,  before  the  year 
was  out,  Tim  Cochrane  was  obliged  to  move  away 
for  want  of  customers  to  sustain  his  business. 

Go  through  that  village  now,  and  what  a  change  ! 
The  houses  are  all  neatly  painted  or  white-washed,  the 
fences  in  good  repair,  the  fields  waving  with  plentiful 
harvests,  or  green  and  blooming  with  the  first  pro¬ 
mise  of  the  year.  The  daily  gathering  of  bright-faced, 
happy  throngs  of  children  to  the  school-house,  and 
the  Sabbath  meeting  of  a  grave,  decent,  devout  con¬ 
gregation  of  parents  in  the  house  of  God,  all  tell  of 
the  marvellous,  the  almost  miraculous  change  that  has 
come  over  the  scene.  If  the  story  had  been  told  fif¬ 
ty,  or  even  twenty  years  ago,  it  would  have  been  set 
down  for  fiction — a  picture  that  might  look  well  on 


ZEB’S  TILLAGE  AFTEB  THE  nEFDBM,— FAU5IEB  SELLI5TG  HIS  CHOP 


(41) 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


43 


paper,  but  could  never  be  reduced  to  real  life.  But 
we  have  seen  it  with  our  own  eyes.  We  know  the 
spot.  We  know  many  of  them,  and  if  it  is  worth  a 
voyage  across  the  Atlantic  to  see  Herculaneum  and 
Pompeii  recovered,  all  dead  and  silent  and  soulless, 
from  the  burial  of  ages,  what  is  it  not  worth  to  the 
heart  of  a  philanthropist,  to  see  hamlets  and  villages 
and  towns  recovered  from  a  moral  burial,  and  not  only 
dwellings  and  fields  thrown  open  to  the  reviving  light 
and  showers  of  heaven,  but  their  occupants  restored 
to  life,  and  health,  and  beauty,  and  men,  women,  and 
children,  husbands  and  wives,  fathers  and  mothers, 
young  men  and  maidens,  rejoicing  together,  and  bless¬ 
ing  God  and  each  other  in  their  marvellous  resurrec- 
tion  from  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

/ 

Mike  Smiley  now  became  an  object  of  public  no¬ 
tice.  Mr.  Ralston,  who  was  struck  with  his  singular 
ability  to  master  whatever  he  undertook,  encouraged 
him  to  prosecute  his  studies  to  the  utmost,  freely  ad¬ 
vancing  him  all  the  means  necessary  to  the  accom¬ 
plishment  of  an  object  so  near  his  heart.  When  his 
education  was  completed,  and  he  was  admitted  to  the 
bar,  Mr.  Ralston  took  him  into  his  own  office,  the  bet¬ 
ter  to  introduce  him  to  the  routine  of  business. 

He  had  been  but  a  few  months  in  this  situation, 
when  a  singular  accident  occurred,  which  greatly  as- 


44 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


sisted  in  bringing  him  into  the  very  foreground  of  his 
profession.  Mr.  Ralston  had  been  engaged  in  a  very 
important  case,  which  had  been,  contested  for  many 
years,  and  which  was  now  about  to  be  brought  to  a 
close.  The  parties  were  both  eager  for  an  immediate 
issue,  but  Mr.  Ralston’s  client  had  procured  a  long 
delay,  in  order  to  bring  up  some  witnesses,  who  had 
been  long  absent  at  sea.  All  was  now  ready,  and  the 
day  of  trial  fixed.  Mike,  who,  in  hunting  up  autho¬ 
rities,  copying  and  comparing  documents,  and  writing 
out  heads  of  arguments,  had  made  himself  acquainted 
with  all  the  principles  involved,  as  well  as  with  the 
facts  in  the  case,  had  entered  it  with  all  the  energy 
and  ardour  of  his  soul.  The  court  was  held  in  a 
county-town,  about  thirty  miles  from  the  city.  Mike, 
or  rather,  Mr.  Smiley,  had  gone  thither  by  the  stage. 
Mr.  Ralston,  for  the  benefit  and  pleasure  of  the  exer¬ 
cise,  went  on  horseback,  on  the  same  noble  steed  by 
whose  means  our  young  hero  was  first  made  ac¬ 
quainted  with  his  patron,  and  now  partner.  The  horse 
was  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  but  had  lost  very 
little  of  his  early  fire  and  beauty. 

A  few  miles  from  the  city  it  wras  necessary  to  cross 
a  bridge,  over  a  narrow  creek,  or  arm  of  the  sea,  in 
the  middle  of  which  was  an  ill-constructed  draw,  for 
the  benefit  of  vessels  occasionally  passing  up  and 
down  the  creek.  The  draw  had  been  opened  that 
morning,  and  though  apparently  replaced,  was  not 
properly  secured.  Mr.  Ralston  was  the  first  to  pass 
over  it,  and,  being  in  a  profound  study  upon  the 
knotty  points  of  his  case,  did  not  perceive  that  anv 


MIKE  SMILEY. 


45 


thing  was  out  of  the  way.  No  sooner,  however,  was 
his  full  weight  brought  upon  the  draw,  than  it  gave 
way  at  once,  and  •  plunged  both  the  horse  and  his 
rider  into  the  deep  water  below. 

With  singular  presence  of  mind,  though  not  with¬ 
out  great  difficulty,  Mr.  Ralston  kept  his  seat  in  the 
saddle  ;  and  his  noble  steed,  not  unused  to  the  water, 
rising  to  the  surface,  struggled  bravely  to  reach  the 
shore.  Here,  however,  was  a  difficulty,  almost  insur¬ 
mountable.  Though  the  creek  was  narrow,  the  bank 
was  absolutely  perpendicular,  and  of  a  soft  clayey 
consistency,  that  allowed  nothing  like  a  foothold. 
After  many  unsuccessful  attempts,  Mr.  Ralston  be¬ 
thought  himself  of  an  expedient  to  effect  his  own  es¬ 
cape,  if  he  could  not  save  his  horse.  Suddenly  spring¬ 
ing  to  his  feet  upon  the  saddle,  he  gave  a  powerful 
leap  toward  the  bank,  and  just  succeeded  in  gaining 
it,  so  as  to  secure  himself  by  grasping  the  long,  tough 
grass  on  its  edge.  He  now  took  a  rail  from  the  fence 
near  by,  and  proceeded  to  break  away  the  sharp  angle 
of  the  bank,  in  the  hope  that  it  might  make  a  path 
for  his  horse.  In  this  he  was  so  far  successful,  that, 
in  half  an  hour  from  the  time  he  commenced,  he  was 
enabled  to  remount,  and  ride  home.  Fortunately  he 
had  emerged  from  the  creek  on  the  side  towards  the 
city,  and  was,  therefore,  not  obliged  to  go  round  a 
great  distance,  in  order  to  procure  a  change  of  clothing. 

The  season  was  October;  and  an  exposure  for  so 
long  a  time,  to  the  cold  air,  in  wet  clothing,  was  not 
without  serious  consequences.  Mr.  Ralston  was 
obliged  to  take  his  bed  at  once,  where  he  was  confined 


46 


M  IKE  S  M  ILEY. 


some  weeks,  with  a  violent  fever,  and  in  imminent 
danger  of  his  life. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  court  had  assembled,  the  par¬ 
ties  were  there,  with  their  witnesses,  and  every  thing 
waited  for  the  arrival  of  Mr.  Ralston.  As  it  had  been 
positively  arranged,  at  the  previous  session,  that  the 
case  should  come  on  that  day,  and  that  a  proposal  for 
any  further  continuance  from  either  of  the  parties, 
should  be  equivalent  to  a  non-suit,  the  opposing  party 
endeavoured  to  avail  himself  of  this  unexpected  delay, 
pretending  that  it  was  a  premeditated  ruse ,  to  procure 
a  respite,  which  could  not  be  had  in  any  other  wTay. 
Mr.  Smiley,  who  fortunately  had  the  satchel,  with  all 
the  papers,  linding  that  the  day  was  wearing  away, 
and  knowing  that  all  would  be  lost,  if  something  were 
not  done  immediately,  proposed  to  the  judge  to  com¬ 
mence  the  case,  as  Mr.  Ralston  would  undoubtedly 
be  there  in  a  short  time.  It  was  a  terrible  step  for 
poor  Mike.  Not  only  were  hundreds  of  thousands 
pending  upon  the  result,  but  Mr.  Ralston’s  standing 
and  fame  as  a  lawyer  wrere  at  stake.  He  hoped  to  be 
able  to  consume  time  in  unimportant  preliminaries, 
till  his  partner  should  arrive. 

His  partner  did  not  come,  however,  and  it  was  not 
many  hours  before  Mike  knew  that  the  whole  case 
had  devolved  all  at  once  upon  him.  His  opponents 
would  not  listen  to  a  postponement,  though  the  hand 
of  Providence  had  seemed  to  make  it  necessarv.  And 
the  case  came  on.  Mike  was  all  alone ;  his  whole 
frame  was  agitated  ;  but  his  mind  was  clear  and  bold. 
He  had  grasped  all  the  points  in  the  case;  he  had 


47 


MIKE  SMILEY. 

measured  the  length  and  breadth  of  his  antagonist ; 
and  with  the  desperate  energy  of  one  who  has  every 
thing  to  lose,  or  every  thing  to  gain,  in  a  single  throw, 
put  forth  his  utmost  efforts  to  do  justice  to  the  cause. 
It  was  a  wonderful  effort.  The  examination  of  the 
witnesses — the  statement  of  his  case — the  detection 
and  exposure  of  the  weak  points  and  sophistries  of  his 
opponent — the  laying  down  of  the  principles  of  law — 
the  argument  and  appeal  to  the  jury — all  of  every  part 
would  have  done  credit  to  the  most  experienced  law¬ 
yer  of  the  bar.  It  was  not  only  a  wonderful  effort, 
but  a  successful  one,  and  Mike  had  the  proud  satis¬ 
faction,  at  the  end  of  the  week,  of  announcing  to  Mr. 
Ralston,  in  his  sick  room,  the  favourable  verdict. 

“Onward,  still  onward,”  was  Mike’s  motto.  And 
onward,  still  onward,  he  marched,  rising  step  by  step, 
in  influence  and  power,  till  he  reached  the  Halls  of 
Congress ;  and  if  he  does  not,  at  no  distant  day,  fill 
the  presidential  chair,  it  will  be  rather  because  he  is 
too  straight  forward  and  honest  for  any  party,  than 
because  he  is  wanting  in  ability  to  fill  the  station,  or 
ambition  to  aspire  to  it. 


EMMA  ALTON. 


By  Mrs.  Caroline  H.  Butler, 


It  was  Emma’s  bridal  morn.  I  saw  her  standing 
at  the  door  of  her  father’s  cottage,  a  simple  wreath  of 
the  pure  lily  of  the  valley  entwined  amid  the  rich 
braids  of  her  auburn  hair — the  image  of  innocence 
and  happiness.  That  morning,  fair  Emma  Alton  had 
given  her  hand  where  long  her  young  affections  had 

(48) 


EMMA  ALTON. 


49 


been  treasured ;  and  to  those  who  then  saw  the  fine 
handsome  countenance  of  Reuben  Fairfield,  and  the 
pride  and  love  with  which  he  regarded  the  fair  being 
at  his  side,  it  seemed  impossible  that  aught  but  hap¬ 
piness  could  follow  the  solemn  rites  the  cottage  had 
that  morning  witnessed. 

The  dwelling  of  my  friend  to  whose  rural  quiet  I 
had  escaped  from  the  heat  and  turmoil  of  the  city, 
was  directly  opposite  the  neat  little  cottage  of  Emma’s 
parents,  and  as  I  sat  at  my  chamber  window,  my  eye 
was  of  course  attracted  by  the  happy  scene  before 
me.  The  morning  was  truly  delightful — scarce  a 
cloud  floated  o’er  the  blue  vault  of  heaven — now  and 
then  a  soft  breeze  came  whispering  through  the  fra¬ 
grant  locust  blossoms  and  proud  catalpas,  then  stoop¬ 
ing  to  kiss  the  dewy  grass,  sped  far  off  in  fantastic 
shadows  over  the  rich  wheat  and  clover  fields.  All 
seemed  in  unison  with  the  happiness  so  apparent  at 
the  cottage — the  birds  sang — butterflies  sported  on 
golden  wing — bees  hummed  busily.  Many  of  Emma’s 
youthful  companions,  had  come  to  witness  the  cere¬ 
mony,  and  to  bid  adieu  to  their  beloved  associate,  for  as 
soon  as  the  holy  rites  were  concluded,  Reuben  was  to 
bear  his  fair  bride  to  a  distant  village,  where  already  a 
beautiful  cottage  was  prepared,  over  which  shewras  to 
preside  the  charming  mistress. 

There  is  always,  I  believe,  a  feeling  of  sadness 
commingled  with  the  pleasure  wfith  which  we  regard 
the  young  and  trusting  bride,  and  as  I  nowr  looked 
upon  E  mma  standing  in  the  little  portico  surrounded 
by  the  bright  and  happy  faces  of  her  companions,  her 


50 


EMMA  ALTON. 


own  still  more  radiant,  I  involuntarily  sighed  as  I 
thought  of  what  her  future  lot  might  be.  Was  my 
sigh  prophetic  ?  Presently  the  chaise  which  was  to 
convey  the  new-married  pair  to  their  future  home, 
drove  gaily  to  the  gate  of  the  cottage.  I  saw  Emma 
bid  adieu  to  her  young  friends  as  they  all  gathered 
around  her.  I  saw  her  fair  arms  thrown  around  the 
neck  of  her  weeping  mother,  and  then,  supported  by 
her  father  and  Reuben,  she  was  borne  to  the  carriage. 
Long  was  she  pressed  to  her  father’s  heart,  ere  he  re¬ 
signed  her  for  ever  to  her  husband. 

“  God  bless  you,  my  child  1”  at  length  said  the  old 
man;  but  no  sound  escaped  Emma’s  lips — she  threw 
herself  back  in  the  chaise,  and  drew  her  veil  hastily 
over  her  face — Reuben  sprang  to  her  side — waved  his 
hand  to  the  now  weeping  assemblage  at  the  cottage 
door,  and  the  chaise  drove  rapidly  away. 

I  soon  after  left  the  village,  and  heard  no  more  ot 
the  youthful  pair.  Three  years  elapsed  ere  I  again 
visited  that  pleasant  spot,  and  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  as  I  took  my  favourite  seat,  and  looked  over 
upon  the  little  dwelling  opposite,  the  blithe  scene  I 
had  there  witnessed,  recurred  to  me,  and  I  marvelled 
if  all  which  promised  so  fair  on  the  bridal  morn  had 
been  realized.  To  my  eye  the  cottage  did  not  look  as 
cheerful,  the  air  of  neatness  and  comfort  which  before 
distinguished  it  seemed  lessened.  I  noticed  the  walk 
was  now  overgrown  with  grass,  and  the  little  flower 
plot,  about  which  I  had  so  often  seen  Emma  employed, 
was  nowr  rank  with  weeds.  The  blinds  were  all  closely 
shut,  and  every  thing  about  the  cottage  looked  com- 


EMMA  ALTON. 


51 


fortless  and  desolate.  Presently  the  door  opened,  and 
a  female  appeared,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  small  basket 
which  she  proceeded  to  fill  with  vegetables  growing 
sparsely  among  the  weeds  and  tall  tangled  grass.  Her 
step  was  feeble,  and  she  seemed  hardly  capable  of 
pursuing  her  employment.  As  she  turned  her  face 
toward  me  I  started  with  surprise — I  looked  at  her 
again  more  earnestly — is  it  possible — can  that  be  Em¬ 
ma,  thought  I — can  that  pale,  wretched  looking  girl 
be  her  whom  I  last  saw  a  happy,  blooming  bride? 

Yes,  it  was  Emma  !  Alas  !  how  soon  are  the  bright 
visions  of  youth  dispelled  ;  like  those  beautiful  images 
which  flit  around  the  couch  of  dreams,  they  can  never 
be  realized. 

The  history  of  Emma  is  one  which  has  often  been 
written  by  the  pen  of  truth — a  tearful  record  of  man's 
ingratitude  and  folly — of  woman's  all-enduring  love, 
sufferance,  and  constancy. 

The  first  few  months  of  Emma’s  married  life  flew 
by  in  unalloyed  happiness.  Reuben  lived  but  in  her 
smiles,  and  life,  to  the  young  affectionate  girl,  seemed 
but  a  joyous  holiday,  and  she  the  most  joyous  partici¬ 
pant.  Too  soon  the  scene  was  changed.  Reuben 
Fairfield  was  of  a  gay  and  reckless  nature,  fond  of  con¬ 
viviality,  of  the  jest  and  song,  he  was  consequently  a 
great  favourite  with  the  young  men  of  the  village,  and 
there  had  been  rumours  that  even  before  his  marriage 
he  had  been  too  free  a  partaker  of  the  wine-cup.  If 
this  were  the  case,  months  certainly  passed  on  after 
that  event,  when  Reuben  seemed  indifferent  to  any 

society  but  that  of  his  young  wife.  Little  by  little 

5 


52 


EMMA  ALTON 


his  old  habits  returned  upon  him,  so  insensibly  too 
that  even  he  himself  could  not  probably  have  defined 
the  time  when  he  again  found  pleasure  away  from  the 
home  of  love  and  Emma.  In  the  only  tavern  of  the 
village,  a  room  was  devoted  exclusively  to  the  revels 
of  a  band  of  reckless,  dissolute  young  men,  with  whom 
Reuben  had  at  one  time  been  intimate,  and  it  needed 
but  the  slightest  appearance  on  the  part  of  the  latter 
to  tolerate  once* more  their  idle  carousals,  than  with 
one  consent  they  all  united  to  bring  back  the  Benedict 
to  his  old  habits.  They  thought  not  of  the  misery 
which  would  follow  the  success  of  their  fiendish  plot; 
of  the  broken  heart  of  the  young  being  who  looked 
up  to  their  victim  as  her  only  hope  and  happiness. 

It  was  the  gay  spring-time,  when  Reuben  Fairchild 
bore  his  bride  away  from  the  arms  of  her  aged  pa¬ 
rents  ;  but  what  became  of  the  solemn  vows  he  then 
uttered,  to  protect  and  cherish  their  beloved  daughter  ? 
For  when  next  the  forest  trees  unfolded  their  tender 
leaves,  and  the  orchards  were  white  with  fragrant 
blossoms,  misery  and  despair  had  fallen  as  a  blight 
upon  poor  Emma  !  The  heart  of  affection  is  the  last 
to  acknowledge  the  errors  of  a  beloved  object,  so  it 
was  with  Emma;  but  her  cheek  grew  pale,  and  her 
mild  blue  eyes  dimmed  beneath  their  wo-charged  lids. 

Reuben  now  almost  entirely  neglected  his  patient, 
still  loving  wife.  In  vain  she  reasoned,  entreated, 
implored,  yet  never  reproached.  He  was  alike  regard¬ 
less;  daily  he  gave  himself  up  more  and  more  to  the 
insatiate  destroyer,  until  destruction,  both  of  soul  and 
body,  followed.  And  loud  rang  the  laugh,  and  the 


EMMA  ALTON. 


53 


glasses  rattled,  and  the  voice  of  the  Inebriate  shouted 
forth  its  loathsome  jargon  from  the  Tempter' s  Hell ! 
There  were  times,  it  is  true,  when  he  would  pause  in 
his  reckless  career  ;  and  then  hope  once  more  buoyed 
up  the  sinking  heart  of  Emma ;  and  when  for  the 
first  time  he  pressed  their  babe  to  his  bosom,  while  a 
tear  fell  on  its  innocent  cheek,  it  is  no  wonder  that 
the  young  mother  felt  her  sorrows  ended.  That  tear, 
the  tear,  as  she  thought,  of  repentance,  had  washed 
them  all  away.  But  when  vice  once  gets  the  ascen¬ 
dancy,  it  reigns  like  a  despot,  and  too  soon  the  holy 
feelings  of  the  father  were  lost  in  the  intoxicating  bowl. 

Poverty,  with  all  its  attendant  ills,  now  came  upon 

i 

the  wretched  wife.  One  by  one  the  articles  of  her 
little  menage  wrere  taken  from  her  by  Reuben,  to  sa¬ 
tisfy  the  cravings  of  appetite ,  and  with  her  babe  she 
was  at  last  forced  to  leave  the  cottage  where  her  early 
days  of  married  life  so  blissfully  flew  by,  and  seek 
shelter  from  the  winds  of  heaven  in  a  miserable  hut, 
which  only  misery  might  tenant.  The  unfortunate 
find  few  friends,  and  over  the  threshold  of  poverty 
new  ones  seldom  pass,  and  therefore  it  was  that 
Emma  was  soon  neglected  and  forgotten.  There  were 
some,  it  is  true,  who  regarded  her  with  pity  and  kind¬ 
ness,  but  there  were  also  very  many  who  pointed  the 
finger  of  derision  at  the  drunkard's  wife — innocent 
sufferer  for  her  husband’s  vices  !  At  length  the  babe 
fell  ill.  It  died,  and  poor,  poor  Emma,  pale,  discon¬ 
solate,  knelt  by  the  little  cradle  alone ;  no  sympathiz¬ 
ing  hand  wiped  the  tear  from  her  eye;  no  kind  word 
soothed  her  lacerated  bosom ;  the  earthly  friend  that 


54 


EMMA  ALTON. 

should  have  sustained  her  under  this  grievous  trial 
was  not  at  her  side,  but  revelling  in  scenes  of  low 
debauchery. 

That  night  was  marked  by  a  storm  of  terrific  vio¬ 
lence.  The  rain  poured  in  torrents ;  dreadful  thun¬ 
der  rent  the  heavens,  the  whirlwinds  uplifted  even  the 
largest  trees,  while  the  incessant  flashing  of  the  light¬ 
ning  only  added  tenfold  horrors  to  the  scene.  But 
the  bereaved  mother,  the  forsaken  wife  heeded  it  not; 
with  her  cheek  pressed  against  the  scarce  colder  one 
of  her  dead  babe,  she  remained  for  hours  totally  un¬ 
conscious  of  the  wild  war  of  the  elements — for  more 
complete  desolation  reigned  in  her  heart.  At  length 
the  door  opened  and  Reuben  entered.  With  an  oath,  * 
he  was  about  to  throw  himself  upon  the  straw  pallet, 
when  his  eye  casually  fell  upon  the  pale,  marble-like 
face  of  the  little  babe.  His  senses,  stupified  as  they 
were,  aroused  at  the  sight. 

“  What  ails  the  child  V ’  he  muttered. 

“  Reuben,  our  darling  babe  is  dead  T  replied  Em¬ 
ma,  lifting  her  pallid  features  to  the  bloated  gaze  of 
her  husband.  Then  rising  from  her  knees,  she  ap¬ 
proached  him  and  led  him  to  look  upon  the  placid 
countenance  of  their  first  born. 

We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  scene;  remorse  and 
grief  stirred  the  heart  of  Reuben  almost  to  madness. 
On  his  knees  he  implored  forgiveness  of  his  much 
injured  wife;  he  swore  a  solemn  oath,  that  never 
again  would  he  swerve  from  the  path  of  sobriety,  but 
that  years  of  penitence  and  affection  should  atone  for 
his  past  abuse  of  life  and  love. 


EMMA  ALTON. 


55 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN. 


The  day  came  for  the  funeral.  Reuben  had  pro* 
mised  his  wife  that  he  wrould  not  again  leave  the  house 
until  the  remains  of  their  babe  had  been  given  to  the 
earth;  he  intended  to  keep  his  promise,  but  as  the 
day  wore  on  the  insatiable  cries  of  habit  tempted  him 
away.  Only  one  glass ,  he  thought — but  another  fol¬ 
lowed — and  then  another,  until  alike  forgetful  of  him¬ 
self  and  his  unhappy  wife,  he  soon  became  grossly 
intoxicated. 

In  the  mean  while  a  few^of  the  neighbours  had  as¬ 
sembled  ;  the  clergyman,  too,  had  arrived,  and  the  fu¬ 
neral  rites  were  only  delayed  by  the  absence  of  Reu¬ 
ben.  Minutes  wore  on. 

“  He  wrill  not  come,”  whispered  one.  “  Ah,  it  is 
easy  to  guess  where  he  is,”  added  another,  and  looks 
of  pity  were  turned  upon  the  heart-stricken  mother, 


56 


EMMA  ALTON. 


as  with  her  head  bowed  upon  the  little  coffin  she  hid 
her  grief  and  shame.  The  clergyman  at  length  ap 
proaching  the  mourner,  in  a  low  tone  demanded  if 
the  ceremony  should  proceed. 

“  Has  he  come  ?”  eagerly  inquired  Emma. 

The  clergyman. shook  his  head. 

“  O  wait,  wait,  he  will  be  here,  he  promised  me. 
O  yes  he  will  come  !” 

But  another  half  hour  rolled  on,  and  still  Reuben 
came  not.  The  neighbours  now  moved  to  depart,  when 
rising  from  her  seat,  her  pallid  countenance  betoken¬ 
ing  the  agony  of  her  heart,  Emma  signified  her  as¬ 
sent  that  the  solemn  rites  should  proceed.  But  sudden 
ly  in  the  midst  of  that  earnest  prayer  for  comfort  and 
support  to  the  afflicted  mother,  a  loud  shout  was  heard, 
and  Reuben  was  seen  staggering  towards  the  hut. 
With  a  brutal  oath  he  burst  into  the  room,  but  hap¬ 
pily  for  poor  Emma,  she  saw  him  not,  the  first  sound 
of  his  voice  had  deprived  her  of  consciousness,  and 
she  was  placed  fainting  on  the  bed.  Reuben  was 
overpowered  and  dragged  from  the  hut — the  funeral 
service  ended,  and  leaving  the  unconscious  mother  in 
the  care  of  a  few  compassionate  neighbours,  the  little 
procession  wound  its  way  to  the  church-yard 

It  was  nearly  a  year  after  this  sad  scene,  that  one 
evening  a  stranger  alighted  from  the  stage  at  the  Inn, 
announcing  his  intention  to  remain  there  for  the  night. 
Entering  the  bar-room  (for  it  was  before  the  health- 
establishment  of  the  temperance  law)  he  ordered  a 
glass  of  brandy,  which  he  was  about  to  carry  to  his 


EMMA  ALTON. 


57 


lips,  when  his  eye  encountered  the  wistful  gaze  of 
Reuben  Fairfield,  who  now  without  the  means  to  al¬ 
lay  the  death-worm  upon  his  vitals,  was  stretched 
upon  a  bench  at  one  end  of  the  room. 

“  I  say,  neighbour,  you  look  thirsty,”  ejaculated  the 
stranger  in  a  gay  tone.  “  Here,  take  this,  for  faith 
thou  hast  a  lean  and  hungry  look .” 

Eagerly  seizing  it,  Reuben  drained  the  contents  of 
the  glass  to  the  bottom,  and  for  a  moment  the  worm 
was  appeased  !  The  stranger  now  made  some  casual 
remark,  to  which  Reuben  replied  in  language  so  well 
chosen,  and  evidently  so  far  above  his  apparent  sta¬ 
tion  in  life,  that  the  former  was  astonished,  and  by 
degrees  a  lively  conversation  took  place  between 
them,  during  which  Reuben  more  than  once  partook 
of  the  young  man’s  mistaken  kindness.  While  con¬ 
versing,  the  stranger  several  times  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  handsome  gold  watch,  and  the  chink  of  sil¬ 
ver  fell  upon  the  famished  ears  of  Reuben  with  start¬ 
ling  clearness.  Apparently  with  that  feeling  of  ennui 
which  so  often  seizes  upon  the  solitary  traveller,  the 
stranger  now  strolled  from  the  bar-room  into  the  hail, 
a  door  leading  into  a  room  opposite  was  open,  and 
sounds  of  loud  merriment  attracted  his  eyes  in  that 
direction.  A  company  of  young  men  were  playing 
at  cards — without  ceremony  he  entered,  and,  advanc¬ 
ing  to  the  table,  appeared  to  watch  the  game  with 
some  interest.  He  was  invited  to  join  them,  and,  after 
some  hesitation  accepted. 

Reuben  had  followed  the  young  man  into  the  room, 
and  now  eagerly  watched  the  pile  of  silver,  and  an 


58 


EMMA  ALTON. 


% 


occasional  bank  note,  which  rather  ostentatiously,  it 
would  seem,  the  stranger  displayed.  The  evening 
wore  away,  and  with  a  promise  from  Reuben  that  he 
would  awaken  him  betimes  to  visit  a  singular  cave  in 
the  neighbourhood,  the  stranger  retired  to  rest.  Not 
so  Reuben.  A  fiendish  plot  entered  his  brain — that 
money  must  he  his — and  even  at  that  moment  when 
robbery,  perhaps  murder,  was  at  his  heart,  he  dared 
to  think  of  the  pure-minded,  innocent  Emma  as  a 
sharer  of  his  ill-gotten  wealth  !  All  night  he  paced 
the  dark  forest  contiguous  to  his  abode,  where  long 
after  midnight  the  feeble  lamp  shone  upon  the  hag¬ 
gard  features  of  the  once  lovely  girl  as  she  strove 
with  trembling  fingers  to  render  the  apparel  of  the 
inebriate  decent  for  the  morrow. 

As  the  day  was  breaking,  Reuben  passed  softly 
into  the  cottage,  for  he  knew  that  Emma  now  slept, 
approaching  the  bedside,  something  like  a  shade  of 
pity  stole  over  his  countenance.  She  smiled  in  her 
sleep  and  called  ‘upon  his  name — this  was  too  much  , 
for  the  miserable  man.  Hastily  opening  a  table  draw¬ 
er,  he  drew  forth  a  sharp  knife  which  he  concealed 
beneath  his  coat,  muttering  as  he  did  so — “  I  may 
need  it,”  and  then  without  daring  to  cast  his  eye 
again  toward  the  bed,  left  the  house  and  proceeded  to 
the  inn,  where  the  stranger  already  awaited  his  arrival. 

With  each  point  of  view  as  they  proceeded  on  their 
route  the  latter  expressed  himself  delighted,  particu¬ 
larly  as  his  guide,  too,  endeavoured  to  give  interest  to 
every  scene  by  the  relation  of  some  anecdote  or  history 
attached.  At  length  they  reached  the  neighbourhood 


EMMA  ALTON. 


59 


of  the  cavern.  Here  the  river  which  before  had  rolled 
so  gently  along,  reflecting  the  varied  hues  of  au¬ 
tumn  in  its  trauslucent  depths,  now  suddenly  changed 
its  course,  and  leaping  over  a  precipice  some  thirty 
feet  in  height,  pursued  its  way  for  some  distance  be¬ 
tween  huge  masses  of  shelving  rocks'  crowned  on 
either  side  by  dark  gloomy  forests.  After  a  laborious 
descent  they  arrived  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  situ¬ 
ated  about  mid-way  down  the  bank.  Reuben  entered 
first,  and  the  stranger  was  about  to  follow,  when  turn¬ 
ing  suddenly  upon  him  with  a  blow  of  giant  strength, 
hurled  him  from  the  precipice,  and  he  fell  senseless 
upon  the  jagged  rocks  below !  Leaping  quickly 
down,  Reuben  now  rifled  the  pockets  of  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  man  of  both  money  and  watch,  and  then  drew 
him,  still  breathing,  up  the  ragged  cliff  and  far  into 
the  cave.  More  than  once  as  he  sawT  life  yet  stirred 
in  the  limbs  of  his  victim,  his  hand  was  upon  the 
knife — but  he  drew  it' not  forth  ! 

Covering  the  body  with  fragments  of  rock  and  un¬ 
der-wood,  he  left  the  hapless  man  to  his  fate,  certain 
that  even  if  consciousness  returned,  his  efforts  to  ex¬ 
tricate  himself  from  the  mass  would  be  unavailing,  and 
as  he  had  taken  the  precaution  also  to  closely  bind  his 
mouth,  he  could  utter  no  cry  for  assistance. 

Returning  now  to  the  village,  he  boldly  entered 
the  inn,  and  stating  to  the  landlord  that  the  stranger 
had  been  tempted  by  the  fineness  of  the  morning  to 
pursue  his  journey  a  few  miles  on  foot,  proceeded  to 
hand  him  a  sum  of  money  which  he  said  he  had 
charged  him  to  deliver  as  equivalent  to  the  amount 


i 


60 


EMMA  ALTON. 


due  for  supper  and  lodging.  This  all  appeared  very 
reasonable  and  no  questions  were  asked.  But  ere  the 
day  was  over,  some  boys  who  had  strayed  in  the  vici¬ 
nity  of  the  cave,  came  running  home  pale  and  fright¬ 
ened,  declaring  they  had  heard  dreadful  groans  issue 
thence,  and  that  many  of  the  rocks  around  were  stained 
with  blood  !  Immediately  every  eye  was  turned  to 
the  spot  where  a  moment  before  Reuben  F airfield  had 
been  standing,  and  although  no  one  spoke,  probably 
the  same  terrible  conviction  flashed  through  the  mind 
of  each  ;  but  guilt  is  always  cowardly.  Reuben  had 
already  disappeared. 

A  party  of  villagers  immediately  set  forth  to  search 
the  cave.  The  result  may  be  imagined — the  stranger 
was  discovered  still  alive,  although  but  for  this  timely 
aid,  a  few  hours  would  doubtless  have  determined  his 
fate.  Reuben  attempted  to  make  his  escape,  but  was 
soon  overtaken  and  delivered  up  to  justice — found 
guilty,  and  sentenced  to  ten  years  hard  labour  in  the 
State  Prison  ! 

This  sad  history  I  learned  from  my  friend  ;  and 
now  poor  Emma  had  come  back  to  die  !  Come  back 
to  that  home  she  had  left  with  so  many  bright  visions 
of  happiness  before  her,  a  heart-broken,  wTetched  be¬ 
ing.  It  was  not  long  ere  from  the  same  little  gate, 
whence  but  a  few  years  before  I  had  seen  her  led  a 
happy  blooming  bride,  I  saw  her  coffin  borne  to  the 
still  graveyard  ! 

“  Ah  !”  thought  I,  as  the  hot  tears  gathered,  “  thou 
art  but  another  victim  at  the  shrine  of  Intemperance  !” 
Rest  thee  in  peace,  poor  Emma  ! 


THE  FEAR  OF  RIDICULE. 

One  evening  a  short  time  since,  five  or  six  young 
men,  clerks  in  one  of  our  fashionable  stores,  were  con¬ 
gregated  together  before  the  entrance  of  a  noted  oys¬ 
ter  saloon.  They  seemed  on  the  point  of  entering, 
when  one  of  their  number  hung  back,  declaring  that 
he  would  not  go  in. 

“  What’s  the  matter,  Thompson  ?”  exclaimed  the 
others,  “  what’s  the  matter  with  you  ?  why  don’t  you 
come  ?” 

“  Because  I  think  it  wrong,  answered  the  young 
man,  “  to  visit  such  places  ;  it  is  against  my  princi¬ 
ples  to  do  it.” 

“  A  fig  for  your  principles exclaimed  one.  “  Why 

(61) 


62  THE  FEAR  OF  RIDICULE. 

I  thought  better  of  you.  I  didn’t  suppose,  when  you 
first  came  among  us,  that  you  would  evince  so  little 
real  spirit.” 

“  I  did  not  think  you  would  urge  me  to  visit  such  a 
place  as  this,”  answered  Thompson.  “  What  would 
our  employers  think  of  us,  were  they  to  see  us  here 
now  ?” 

“  Who  cares  for  them  ?”  said  another.  “  Let  our 
employers  mind  their  business,  and  we’ll  mind  ours. 
It  is  none  of  their  concern  how  or  where  we  spend 
our  evenings.” 

“  I  think  it  is  ;  and  I  am  not  willing  to  put  my  re¬ 
putation  at  stake  by  being  seen  in  such  a  place.” 

“  Why,  Thompson,  I  didn’t  think  you  so  chicken- 
hearted,”  exclaimed  the  other.  “  Only  hear  him,  boys. 
He’s  afraid  to  go  in  and  eat  a  few  ovsters  with  us.” 

“  Ho  !  ho !  ho  !  a  parson  verily — in  our  new  clerk,” 
exclaimed  the  others,”  laughing  scornfully. 

“  Won’t  you  preach  us  a  sermon,  Sir  Clergyman? 
Come  I’ll  give  you  a  text;”  and  a  dozen  similar 
squibs  of  ridicule  were  showered  upon  him,  and 
Thompson’s  resolution  began  to  waver. 

11  Come,  come,  Thompson,”  at  last  said  one,  who 
professed  to  be  his  friend, .  “  don’t  be  a  fool.  Here 
we’ve  invited  you  to  sup  with  us ;  and  now  if  you 
refuse,  I  tell  you  as  a  friend  that  your  popularity  will 
be  at  an  end  with  us;  Your  credit  won’t  be  worth  a 
rush  at  the  store,  I  can  tell  you.  Come  along  with  us, 
man  ;  you’ll  feel  better  for  a  frolic  now  and  then.” 

The  united  influence  of  ridicule  and  persuasion 
were  too  much  for  Thompson’s  “principles”  —  he 


THE  FEAR  OF  RIDICULE. 


63 


yielded  to  the  temptation,  and  entered  the  saloon  with 
them. 

They  were  soon  seated  around  a  table  loaded  with 
a  luxurious  repast.  But  having  gained  the  first  point, 
their  next  was  to  entice  him  to  drink.  This  was  not 
so  easy.  Thompson  had  been  carefully  educated, 
and  he  was  for  a  long  time  proof  against  their  solici¬ 
tations  to  partake  of  the  wine-cup  ;  but  ridicule  at  last 
prevailed  again,  and  he  yielded  as  he  had  done  before. 
The  party  broke  up  at  a  late  hour,  and  all  of  the  young 
men  were  more  or  less  affected  by  wine.  Poor 
Thompson  went  to  his  room  with  feelings  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  describe. 

“  I  could  not  bear  their  ridicule,”  he  said  to  himself 
as  he  lay  his  aching  head  upon  his  pillow. 

Having  yielded  to  his  companions  in  two  important 
instances,  through  fear  of  ridicule,  he  found  it  a  hope¬ 
less  task  for  him  to  endeavour  to  contend  against  their 
continually  renewed  solicitations  to  indulge  in  dissi¬ 
pation  ;  and  if  his  awakened  conscience  aroused  him 
occasionally  to  a  partial  sense  of  his  danger,  and  he 
faltered  at  participating  in  some  scene  of  dissipation 
more  bold  than  at  first,  the  lash  of  ridicule  was  applied 
to  him  without  stint,  by  his  companions,  and  he  would 
offer  no  resistance. 

He  found  it  true  that  the  line  of  prudence  once 
passed,  it  was  hard  indeed  to  turn  back  ;  and  he  was 
hurried  along  at  last,  step  by  step,  in  the  full  career 
towards  the  shipwreck  of  his  fair  fame,  and  his  hopes 
of  future  peace. 

Good  principles  amount  to  nothing  without  strength 


64 


THE  FEAR  OF  RIDICULE. 


of  mind  and  energy  to  abide  by  them.  And  most 
surely  do  the  youth  find  this  to  be  true,  who  are  in 
cities  exposed  to  numberless  temptations,  and  without 
the  protecting  influences  of  home.  Be  careful  then, 
young  men,  and  watch  yourselves  narrowly,  that  no 
improper  tastes  or  dispositions  take  root  in  your  mind, 
and  lure  you  from  the  path  of  dutjf.  It  is  a  safe  and 
pleasant  path  to  pursue,  and  its  end  is  honour  and  peace 
— but  once  deviated  from,  it  will  be  found  no  easy 
road  to  regain. 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

W hat  is  more  holy  than  a  mother’s  love  ?  It  beams 
on  its  object  purely  and  calmly,  unmixed  with  passion 
and  careless  of  reward. 

And  yet  this  affection  may  be  perverted.  It  may 
render  the  object  once  worthy  of  it  miserable  and  sin¬ 
ful,  and  bring  down  the  heart  which  once  glowTed  witn 
it,  sorrowing  to  the  grave.  Let  ns  sketch  the  melan¬ 
choly  transaction,  as  it  has  occurred  in  actual  life. 

(65) 


66 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


One  Sabbath  afternoon,  in  the  summer  of  1 825,  a 
mother  sat,  with  her  little  boy,  on  the  mound  of  a  re¬ 
cent  grave.  There  was  in  the  air  that  softened  feel¬ 
ing  which  frequently  succeeds  a  sultry  noon,  and 
seems  to  accord  well  with  the  melancholy  of  the  sor¬ 
rowing  soul ;  while  the  ceaseless  chirping  of  thou¬ 
sands  of  insects  imparted  a  feeling  of  freshness  and 
retirement  which  aided  the  mind  in  its  work  of  con¬ 
templation.  But  the  young  mother  seemed  not  to  no¬ 
tice  what  transpired  around  her.  She  held  her  child 
on  her  knee ;  while  tears  rolled  without  ceasing 
from  her  eyes.  Hers  was  the  wild  grief  which 
bursts  at  once  into  the  paroxysms  that  threaten  to 
overwhelm  the  feeble  frame  beneath  their  violence. 
She  sat  upon  the  grave  of  her  husband ;  and,  as  she 
clasped  their  only  child  in  her  arms,  and  pressed  her 
lips  to  his  brow,  she  called  wildly  upon  the  name  of 
him  she  had  loved,  and  prayed  that  at  least  her  life 
might  be  spared  for  the  sake  of  her  son. 

This  scene  deeply  affected  the  little  boy.  Though 
too  young  to  feel  his  loss,  he  had  associated  a  frightful 
meaning  with  the  idea  of  death.  He  remembered  the 
last  words  and  looks  of  his  father,  when  he  had  bid¬ 
den  him  farewell,  as  though  sinking  to  sleep ;  and, 
with  his  hand  on  his  head,  spoke  low  and  sadly,  of  the 
little  son  being  one  day  a  comfort  to  his  mother.  And 
now',  as  his  mother  wept  wildly,  he  placed  his  arms 
around  her,  with  the  warm  feelings  of  childhood,  and 
repeating  his  father’s  blessing,  promised  to  be  to  her 
a  comforter  and  supporter.  And  was  the  mother’s 
prayer  that  she  might  be  spared  to  watch  over  her 


67 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 

son  heard  ?  And  did  the  son  redeem  the  promise  that 
he  would  be  the  comfort  of  his  widowed  mother  ? 

Mrs.  Ross  was  a  kind  but  not  a  judicious  parent 
Sometimes  she  censured  her  little  boy  for  acts,  which 
were  but  the  overflowing  of  exuberant  feelings ;  and 
often  she  laughed  at  deeds  or  expressions  which  were 
deserving  of  punishment.  Under  management  so  tor¬ 
tuous  his  temper  became  irregular,  and  his  will  un¬ 
governable.  The  impression  produced  by  his  father’s 
death,  which,  if  rightly  improved,  might  have  proved 
a  lasting  benefit,  was  soon  effaced  ;  and  five  years 
after  that  event,  when  but  ten  years  of  age,  he  was 
known  among  Mrs.  Ross’s  acquaintances  as  the  spoiled 
child.  At  that  time,  the  decanter  and  wine  glass 
were  the  accompaniments  of  every  sideboard,  and 
every  parlour.  While  Mr.  Ross  lived,  his  son  had 
not  been  permitted  to  taste  their  contents  ;  but  after¬ 
wards,  the  mother  smiled  to  see  her  son  swallow  por¬ 
tions  of  wine  and  cordial  which  she  left  in  the  glass 
for  him,  or  climb  upon  a  chair  to  reach  the  bottle 
down  to  her.  The  result  was  the  same  that  happened 
to  thousands  of  that  period.  At  an  early  age  he  had 
imbibed  a  strong  appetite  for  spirituous  liquor,  and 
sought  to  gratify  it  in  every  possible  way.  He  helped 
himself  to  his  mother’s  wines,  spent  money  at  taverns 
and  liquor  stores,  and  associated  with  those  who,  more 
vicious  than  himself,  were  more  expert  in  obtaining 
the  means  of  satisfying  their  appetite  for  drink. 

To  this  evil  course,  Mrs.  Ross,  in  a  great  measure, 

closed  her  eyes.  Some  acts,  too  glaring  to  escape  her 

notice,  she  excused  on  the  score  of  youth ;  others  she 

6 


63 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


threatened  to  punish,  but  afterwards  passed  in  silence ; 
while  most  of  his  bad  habits  she  concluded  would  cure 
themselves.  It  will  not  excite  wonder  that  with  such 
training,  Samuel  Ross  was  at  the  early  age  of  sixteen, 
in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  confirmed  inebriate. 

Mrs.  Ross  was  awakened  from  her  apathy  by  an 
event,  at  once  sudden  and  unexpected.  Samuel  was 
brought  home,  helplessly  intoxicated.  It  is  natural 
for  woman  to  abhor  a  drunkard  ;  and  yet  this  mother, 
kind  and  sensitive  as  she  was,  had  never  supposed 
that  her  boy  was  in  danger  of  becoming  one,  much 
less,  that  she  had  been  instrumental  in  producing 
such  a  result.  The  shock  received  from  this  specta¬ 
cle  almost  overcame  her :  and  during  the  day,  and  un¬ 
til  late  at  night,  she  sat  in  the  room,  sobbing  and  wring¬ 
ing  her  hands  over  the  helpless  form  of  her  son.  Yet 
this  grief  was  the  effect  of  mortified  pride,  rather  than 
the  genuine  sorrow  which  can  be  alleviated  only  by  the 
removal  of  its  cause.  In  the  morning  a  change  was  vis¬ 
ible  on  the  countenance  of  each,  as  they  sat  at  table. 
For  the  first  time  the  mother  did  not  smile  at  those  ac¬ 
tions  of  her  son,  which  would  have  given  pain  to  any 
other  beholder ;  while  the  young  man,  conscious  that 
she  had  been  a  witness  of  his  degradation,  maintained 
a  sullen  silence.  Mrs.  Ross  tried  to  converse  with 
him  ;  but  he  answered  only  with  short  interjections 
and  in  an  irritated  tone.  He  had  done  so  before,  but 
now  his  words  seemed  cold  and  cruel.  At  last  she 
burst  into  tears — that  infallible  resort  of  the  weak. 
But  with  a  contemptuous  expression  of  countenance, 
he  arose  from  the  table,  and  hastily  putting  on  his  hat, 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


69 


passed  out  of  the  room.  Her  sorrowful  tones,  as  she 
called  him  by  name,  were  unheeded,  and  she  was  left 
alone. 

During  that  day  she  watched  for  him  in  vain,  and 
the  evening  was  wearing  towards  ten  o’clock  before  he 
returned.  Being  half  intoxicated  he  was  not  in  a 
condition  to  sustain  conversation  or  bear  reproof,  but 
at  his  entrance  the  mother  ran  to  meet  him,  and  en¬ 
deavoured  to  draw  him  towards  the  table,  where  his 
supper  was  still  waiting.  But  he  threw  himselt 
doggedly  upon  a  chair,  and,  extending  his  feet  to  their 
full  stretch,  remained  deaf  to  her  questions  and  en¬ 
treaties.  At  last  seating  herself  beside  him,  she 
exclaimed — 

“  Samuel,  have  you  forgotten  I  am  your  mother  ?” 

“  Let  me  alone,”  he  replied,  in  a  voice  choked  with 
passion,  “  I  did  not  come  home  to  be  lectured.” 

Mrs.  Ross  started  to  her  feet;  but  staring  her 
in  the  face  with  a  look  of  malignity,  he  rose  from  the 
chair,  and  passed  to  his  room.  With  a  heavy  heart, 
she  seated  herself  by  the  table,  and  burying  her  face 
in  her  hands,  endeavoured  to  devise  some  plan  to 
regain  the  affections  of  her  boy,  and  save  him  from 
the  career  of  ruin  into  which  he  appeared  to  have  en¬ 
tered.  But  the  longer  she  thought  over  the  painful 
subject,  the  more  did  her  thoughts  become  confused  ; 
and  at  length  she  fell  into  a  troubled  sleep,  which  was 
interrupted  at  intervals  by  frightful  dreams.  Morn¬ 
ing  dawned,  and  found  her  still  in  this  position ;  and 
Samuel,  who  had  partially  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  his  debauch  was  met  as  he  entered  the  room,  by 


4 


70 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


the  spectacle  of  his  mother  reclining  across  the  table, 
while  her  face,  half  concealed  by  hair,  exhibited  every 
appearance  of  the  deepest  grief.  For  a  moment  he 
was  startled.  He  believed  her  to  be  dead  ;  and  could 
remember  enough  of  the  previous  night’s  proceedings 
to  feel  that  he  had  deeply  injured  her.  For  a  while 
he  felt  some  compunctions  of  shame  and  sorrow  ;  but 
on  observing  that  she  was  merely  asleep,  he  regained 
his  usual  indifference.  Destitute  of  every  generous 
feeling,  he  passed  from  the  room,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
left  the  house.  He  returned  at  noon  ;  but  there  was 
no  smile  of  recognition  between  the  mother  and  her 
son,  no  kind  inquiries  after  her  health,  none  of  the  mu¬ 
tual  exchange  of  affection  which  makes  home  delight¬ 
ful.  Mrs.  Ross,  unsuited  for  the  work  of  guiding  or 
governing,  knew  not  in  what  terms  to  address  her  son  ; 
and  he,  rendered  proud  and  brutal  by  sensual  indul¬ 
gence,  disdained  to  extend  to  his  mother,  a  word  of 
consolation. 

Such  is  a  picture  of  the  mode  of  life,  which,  during 
many  weeks,  this  widowed  mother  w’as  doomed  to 
pass.  To  a  woman  of  high  spirit,  but  who  has  not 
been  taught  to  regulate  and  modify  her  will  and  af¬ 
fections,  this  constant  struggle,  with  an  evil  for  which 
she  has  no  remedy,  soon  becomes  the  cause  of  disease 
and  wasting  melancholy.  Such  was  the  case  with 
Mrs.  Ross.  Like  many  others  of  her  sex,  she  could 
sustain  an  amount  of  grief,  which  during  the  first 
wild  outbreak  had  appeared  overwhelming;  but  she 
was  not  formed  to  endure  the  corroding  cares,  which 
silently  but  surely,  prey  upon  the  mind  week  after 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


71 


week,  and  month  after  month.  Her  features  natu¬ 
rally  bright  with  the  glow  of  health,  became  wan  and 
sickly  ;  her  cheerfulness  departed  ;  and  she  grew 
averse  to  that  round  of  pleasures  and  social  inter¬ 
course  which  had  formerly  been  her  chief  enjoyment. 

At  the  early  age  of  nineteen,  Samuel  Ross  was  an 
immoderate  drinker.  He  frequented  low  taverns, 
associated  with  the  vilest  company,  and  laughed  •  at 
the  restraints  of  morality  or  decency.  At  that  time 
the  great  temperance  movement  had  made  rapid  pro¬ 
gress  throughout  the  country,  and  many  of  the  evils, 
which  had  existed  when  Samuel  was  a  boy,  had 
passed  away.  Numerous  efforts  were  made  to  induce 
him  to  join  the  Temperance  men;  but  none  of  them 
were  attended  with  success.  During  the  distress 
which  then  existed  in  every  part  of  the  country,  he 
became  involved  in  difficulties,  in  consequence  of 
his  connection  with  a  gang  of  young  men  who  were 
strongly  suspected  of  being  engaged  in  a  plan  for 
perpetrating  extensive  robberies.  Flying  from  his 
native  city,  he  repaired  to  St.  Louis,  and  assumed  the 
name  of  Hamilton.  Let  us  witness  one  of  the 
closing  scenes  of  his  career  of  crime. 

In  one  of  the  many  taverns  of  St.  Louis,  half  a  dozen 
men  had  collected  together  one  afternoon,  to  play  dice. 
Hamilton  wras  one  of  them.  As  each  lost  or  won,  he 
drank  deeply,  accompanying  the  action  with  a  terrible 
oath.  During  the  first  five  or  six  throws  fortune  ap¬ 
peared  adverse  to  Hamilton.  His  antagonist,  a  thin,  tall 
man,  about  forty-three  years  of  age,  swept,  with  a 
triumphant  leer,  pile  after  pile  of  money  from  the 


72 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


board,  and  with  an  oath,  which  breathed  defiance, 
called  for  drink.  But  while  he  grew  excited,  Hamilton 
remained  cool ;  and  after  partially  emptying  a  glass  as 
often  as  he  lost  a  throw  he  suddenly  refrained  altogether 
from  drinking.  At  this  moment  the  tide  of  success 
turned.  One  after  another  Hamilton  gained  and  bore 
away  the  piles  of  money  staked  before  him,  until  he 
had  doubled  his  original  capital.  He  was  still  calm 
and  cool  as  before ;  while  his  antagonist  bit  his  lips 
with  rage. 

During  this  scene,  a  stout  man,  enveloped  in  a 
blanket  coat,  came  into  the  tavern,  and,  after  drinking, 
approached  the  table  round  which  the  players  were 
seated.  He  stood  without  speaking  for  about  half  an 
hour,  apparently  absorbed  with  the  spectacle.  The 
men  played  on  without  noticing  him ;  but  once  as 
Hamilton  raised  his  eye,  as  if  involuntarily,  he  per¬ 
ceived  that  the  stranger,  instead  of  looking  at  the 
game,  had  his  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  him.  There 
was  something  in  his  look  which  made  Hamilton, 
reckless  as  he  was,  quail,  and  deprived  him  in  a  mo¬ 
ment,  of  his  self-possession. 

The  game  proceeded  as  before,  and  Hamilton  con¬ 
tinued  to  win.  Suddenly,  his  antagonist  threw  his 
dice  upon  the  table,  and  exclaimed  : — “  you  are  cheat¬ 
ing,  sir.  No  man  could  have  thrown  that  dice  as 
you  did  then,  and  win.” 

“But  I  did  win,”  replied  Hamilton,  coolly. 

“  It  was  foul  play — I  stick  to  that,”  said  the  other, 
with  an  oath,  as  he  brought  his  clenched  hand  down 
upon  the  table  with  a  violence  which  made  the  room 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


73 


shake.  The  other  men  ceased  playing  ;  and  Hamil¬ 
ton’s  antagonist  demanded  that  the  throw  should  be 
taken  over.  To  this  the  other  would  not  consent ;  and 
at  last  it  was  proposed  to  ask  the  opinion  of  the  stran¬ 
ger.  Hamilton  was  most  unwilling  to  do  so,  for  he 
had  imbibed  a  strong  antipathy  against  him.  To 
save  appearances  he  submitted,  and  all  parties  urged 
the  man,  if  he  knew  any  thing  about  the  game,  to  give 
his  opinion,  upon  the  fairness  of  Hamilton’s  last 
throw. 

“  I  think,”  said  the  stranger,  fixing  his  eyes  coldly 
upon  Hamilton,  “  that  you  have  been  playing  with 
marked  dice.” 

Every  one  started  to  his  feet. 

“  Seize  him,  seize  him,”  shouted  Hamilton’s  anta¬ 
gonist. 

“  Gentlemen,”  said  Hamilton,  drawing  himself  to 
his  full  height,  “  let  me  request  of  each  of  you,  as  a 
particular  favour,  and  by  friendly  advice,  to  keep  his 
hands  to  himself.  The  man  who  first  touches  me, 
shall  wish  he  had  never  been  born.  As  to  this  fel¬ 
low  whom  you  have  chosen  to  decide  between  us,  I 
ask  him  to  prove  his  assertion.” 

“  I  say”  answered  the  stranger,  “that  I  think  you 
played  part  of  the  last  game  with  marked  dice.  My 
proof  is  simply  this.  Take  this  die  (and  he  lifted  one 
from  the  counter)  and  holding  it  as  you  held  the  last 
one,  win  if  you  can,  once  in  a  hundred  throws.” 

“  Do  you  call  this  proof  ?”  asked  Hamilton., 

“  I  do  call  it  proof  you  dare  not  give,”  rejoined  the 
other. 


74 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


“  I  demand  the  money,”  said  Hamilton. 

“  Proof,  ”  “  the  proof,”  “  he’s  got  marked  dice,” 
“  search  him,”  “seize  him,”  exclaimed  the  others. 
The  excitement  increased. 

“  Gentlemen,”  said  Hamilton,  with  his  former  cool¬ 
ness,  “  I  say  I  played  fairly  and  with  common  dice. 
Who  denies  it?” 

“  I  deny  it,”  said  the  stranger,  “  I  deny  too  that 
your  name  is  Hamilton.  You  were  called  Sam  Ross, 
where  I  first  knew  you :  and  I  will  tell  still  more  if 
you  challenge  me.” 

The  uproar  had  now  reached  a  fearful  height.  No¬ 
thing  but  Hamilton’s  self-possession  prevented  a  scuf¬ 
fle  which  would  have  resulted  in  loss  of  life.  At 
length,  through  the  intercession  of  the  landlord,  the 
affair  was  compromised.  Hamilton  submitted  to  roll 
up  the  sleeve  of  his  coat,  under  which  it  was  thought 
the  marked  dice  were  concealed ;  and  though  none 
were  found,  he  refunded  to  his  antagonist  a  portion  of 
the  money. 

One  evening,  not  long  after  this  event,  a  man  enve¬ 
loped  in  a  blanket  coat,  stood  by  himself,  near  one  of 
the  wharves  of  the  Mississippi,  in  the  lower  part  of  St. 
Louis.  He  gazed  with  almost  painful  interest  at 
every  passer-by.  As  the  evening  wore  away,  he  grew 
more  restless,  gliding  at  intervals  when  no  person  was 
near,  from  one  part  of  the  street  to  another,  and 
seeming  to  await  the  approach  of  a  comrade.  About 
ten  o’clock,  he  suddenly  slunk  behind  a  broken  fence 
post,  and  remained  quiet.  In  a  few  moments,  a  man, 
clothed  like  himself  in  a  large  coat,  turned  a  corner  on 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


75 


the  opposite  side,  and  crossing  towards  the  wharf, 
walked  rapidly  towards  the  upper  part  of  the  city. 
Just  as  he  passed  the  tottering  post,  the  man  stationed 
there  sprang  towards  him,  and  as  the  other  turned, 
seized  his  arm,  threw  it  up,  and  struck  at  his  breast 
with  a  dirk  knife.  Happily  for  the  traveller,  the 
knife’s  point  struck  on  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  and 
glancing  forward,  merely  bared  his  ribs  without  pe¬ 
netrating  them.  Before  the  assassin  could  repeat  the 
stroke  he  was  seized,  and  hurled  upon  the  pavement. 
An  alarm  was  soon  given,  help  soon  arrived  and  the 
intended  murderer  wras  secured.  It  was  Samuel  Ross ; 
the  other  was  the  stranger  who  had  detected  the  false 
dice. 

Ross  was  sentenced  to  two  years  imprisonment. 
He  served  his  term  in  the  State  Prison  and  afterwards 
went  to  New  Orleans.  But  from  the  effects  of  that 
long  confinement  he  never  recovered.  His  health 
had  been  ruined  by  disease  and  debauchery ;  and 
after  his  release,  he  again  resumed  his  habits  of  in¬ 
toxication,  his  constitution  yielded,  and  he  died  in  the 
horrors  of  delirium  tremens.  Thus  wras  his  promise 
redeemed  that  he  would  be  the  support  of  his  mother  ! 

And  was  that  mother  still  alive?  honor  after  his 

cD 

departure  she  had  hoped  and  prayed  for  his  return. 
He  came  not,  and  the  seeds  of  decay  which  he  had 
sowm  while  with  her,  ripened  into  that  disease  of  the 
mind  which  medicine  has  no  power  to  heal.  She 
talked  wildly  of  her  boy,  and  accused  herself,  in  tones 
which  drew’  tears  from  the  eyes  of  all  around,  for  be¬ 
ing  the  cause  of  his  crimes.  One  year  after  her  son’s 


76 


THE  SPOILED  CHILD. 


death,  she  was  buried  in  the  grave  with  her  husband , 
but  she  never  knew  that  he  with  whom,  when  a  boy, 
she  had  wept  over  that  grave,  had  languished  in  a 
dungeon  for  attempted  murder,  and  died  the  degrad¬ 
ing  death  of  a  drunkard.  Thus  the  mother  had 
herself  prevented  the  answer  to  the  prayer  which  she 
then  offered  for  her  son. 


. 


- 


•  . 


■ 


* 


' 


HENRIETTA  GHAT 


DOCTOR  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


By  J.  R.  Orton. 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  is  something  lovely  in  the  name  of  sister, 
and  its  utterance  rarely  fails  to  call  up  the  warm  af¬ 
fections  of  the  gentle  heart.  The  thoughts  that  circle 
round  it  are  all  quiet,  beautiful  and  pure.  Passion 
has  no  place  with  its  associations.  The  hopes  and 
fears  of  love,  those  strong  emotions,  powerful  enough 
to  shatter  and  extinguish  life  itself,  find  no  home  there, 
The  bride  is  the  star,  the  talisman  of  the  heart,  the  dia¬ 
mond  above  all  price,  bright  and  blazing  in  the  noon¬ 
day  sun  ;  a  sister,  the  gem  of  milder  light,  calm  as  the 
mellow  moon,  and  set  in  a  coronet  of  pearls. 

It  was  late  in  the  Autumn  of  18—,  when  a  small 
party  of  young  gentlefolks  were  assembled  at  the  man¬ 
sion  of  Doctor  Gray,  in  one  of  the  principal  streets  of 
the  city  of  Boston.  The  house  was  large,  and  well 
furnished;  and  all  the  arrangements  for  the  little  fete, 
and  the  fete  itself  wrere  conducted  with  that  simplicity 
and  propriety,  which  are  ever  the  evidences  of  taste 
and  delicacy.  At  a  moderate  hour,  the  happy  guests 
departed,  pleased  with  the  hostess,  the  entertainment, 
and  with  themselves.  One  only  lingered  behind,  a 

(  79  ) 


80 


DU.  GUAY  AND  HIS  DAUGIITEU. 


very  youthful  gentleman,  who  stood  with  his  hand 
upon  the  drawing-room  door,  in  conversation  with 
Mrs.  Gray,  and  her  young,  charming  daughter.  Mrs. 
Gray  remarked  that  it -was  still  early,  and  that  Hen¬ 
rietta  and  herself  would  sit  up  for  the  Doctor ;  and 
his  own  wishes  thus  seconded,  the  young  man  again 
resumed  his  chair. 

Henrietta  Gray,  at  this  period,  was  thirteen,  half-* 
girl,  and  half- woman  ;  an  age  when  the  maiden  stops 
in  her  childish  sports,  and  wonders  why  they  have 
always  interested  her  so  deeply  ;  and  as  she  muses, 
sees  in  the  distance,  fairy  palaces,  and  green  and  flow¬ 
ery  banks,  and  smooth,  translucent  rivers — the  thorns 
and  rough  waves  of  the  future  all  blissfully  hidden 
from  her.  She  was  not  handsome  :  her  features  were 
not  regular,  her  face  was  too  pale,  her  form  too  slight. 
But  then  the  combined  expression  of  the  whole  was 
pleasing.  Her  eyes  were  a  liquid  blue,  her  counte¬ 
nance  intelligent ;  and,  above  all,  kindness  beamed  in 
every  feature  ;  and  when  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  like 
the  soothing  ripple  of  a  gentle  stream. 

Arthur  Blane,  the  youth  who  had  secured  a  few  ad¬ 
ditional  minutes  for  the  enjoyment  of  Henrietta’s  soci¬ 
ety,  was  about  two  years  her  senior  ;  a  fair-haired,  rosy 
lad,  of  modest  manners  ;  who,  as  he  finally  bade  her 
good  night,  looked  into  her  eyes  and  trembled  ;  and 
his  voice  sunk  to  a  cadence  almost  as  mellow  as  her 
own  ;  so  true  it  is,  that  gentleness  begets  gentleness, 
and  tends  to  subdue  all  things  to  itself. 

But  Arthur  Blane’s  footsteps  had  hardly  died  away 
on  the  stairs,  when  they  were  heard  again  in  a  rapid 


\ 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


81 


ascent ;  and  rushing  into  the  presence  of  Henrietta 
and  her  mother,  pale  and  affrighted,  in  a  few  broken 
words,  but  tenderly  as  possible,  he  informed  them 
that  an  accident  had  befallen  the  Doctor.  The  brief 
announcement  was  hardly  ended,  when ’the  ghastly 
person  of  Doctor  Gray,  senseless  and  bleeding,  was 
borne  into  the  house.  The  explanation  of  the  casual¬ 
ty  was,  that  in  returning  from  a  professional  visit,  in 
a  dark  and  narrow  street,  his  carriage  had  been  over¬ 
turned  by  striking  against  a  post. 

The  sudden  transformation  of  Doctor  Gray’s  elegant 
and  happy  mansion  to  a  house  of  mourning  ;  the  wild 
grief  of  Mrs.  Gray,  the  heart-broken  sighs  of  Henri¬ 
etta  ;  and  the  attempts  of  Arthur  Blane,  and  other 
friends  hastily  summoned  at  midnight,  with  conster¬ 
nation  pictured  in  their  faces  to  administer  hope  and 
consolation  ;  the  Doctor’s  gradual  return  to  conscious¬ 
ness  ;  and  the  doubts  and  apprehensions  of  his 
medical  attendants  as  to  the  final  result ;  are  of  a  na¬ 
ture  too  painful  to  dwell  on.  Suffice  it,  that  with  the 
morning  the  family  were  permitted  to  hope ;  and  the 
Doctor  entered  on  a  period  of  slow  and  painful  con¬ 
valescence. 

\ 

Doctor  Gray  was,  or  had  been,  one  of  the  mos* 
skilful  and  popular  physicians  of  the  city.  He  was 
now  fifty  years  old  ;  and,  unfortunately  haying  re¬ 
mained  a  bachelor  until  thirty-five,  during  the  period 
of  his  single  life  he  had  acquired  habits  of  convi¬ 
viality  and  late  hours,  which  he  had  never  found  the 
resolution  to  abandon.  He  was  in  the  main  a  kind 
husband,  and  an  affectionate  parent ;  but  as  evil  ha- 


82 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


bits,  if  not  vanquished,  in  the  end  are  almost  certain 
to  vanquish ,  so  the  Doctor’s  relish  for  the  glee  club 
and  the  bottle  had  grown  upon  him,  until  it  had  near¬ 
ly  made  its  last  demand,  in  a  claim  for  his  life. 

Another  evil  had  still  followed  in  the  wake  of  the 

t 

Doctor’s  course  of  life.  It  lost  him  the  confidence  of 
his  friends ;  and  for  several  years,  while  the  expenses 
of  his  family  had  been  increasing,  his  business  had 
been  diminishing.  His  accident,  and  the  confinement 
of  several  months  which  followed,  turned  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  his  creditors  to  the  condition  of  his  affairs^ 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


83 


and  he  recovered  only  to  find  himself  a  bankrupt 
and  his  wife  and  children  reduced  to  beggary. 

At  this  distressing  period  in  the  history  ot  the 
Gray  family,  the  Doctor  and  his  three  younger 
children  suddenly  disappeared  ;  and  no  trace  of  them 
could  be  discovered.  After  a  time  of  wonder, 
of  grief  and  despair,  Mrs.  Gray  and  Henrietta,  the 
sole  remaining  members  of  the  household,  retired 
to  cheap  and  narrow  quarters  in  the  suburbs  of  the 
town,  where  the  mother,  overcome  hy  the  successive 
shocks  of  her  severe  destiny,  sunk  into  a  condition 
of  imbecility. 

Not  so  with  Henrietta.  Though  a  shadow  rested 
on  her  pale  face,  and  the  sorrows  of  her  young  life 
had  sunk  deeply  into  her  heart,  a  kind  Providence 
had  not  suffered  her  to  be  broken  by  their  unusual 
weight.  She  wTas  still  gentle  as  ever,  but  misfortune 
is  rapid  in  the  development  of  character;  and  to 
gentleness  were  nowT  added  an  unlooked-for  fortitude 
and  energy.  Her  mother,  entirely  incapable  of  effort, 
and  herself,  were  to  be  fed.  She  laid  her  case  at  the 
foot  of  Omnipotence,  and  received  strength.  Friends, 
it  is  true,  wTere  kind ;  and  some  relations  there  were, 
who  did  not  utterly  forget  the  bereaved  ones  in  their 
affliction  ;  but,  in  the  main,  the  wants  of  both  mother 
and  daughter  were  now  to  be  supplied,  and,  for  a  pe¬ 
riod  df  weary  months  and  years,  were  supplied  by  the 
labours  of  Henrietta.  When  not  occupied  with  the  care 
of  her  sick  parent,  her  needle  w~as  in  active  requisition  ; 
and  early  and  late  she  toiled,  and  toiled  cheerfully,  for 

bread ;  and  thanked  God  that  it  was  daily  given  her 

7 


84 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


Among  her  kind  friends,  none  were  more  constant 
or  thoughtful  than  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Blane.  Neither  did 
Arthur  forget  her;  and  to  the  great  scandal  of  the 
prying  ones,  he  divided  the  leisure  of  his  col¬ 
lege  vacation  pretty  equally  between  his  father’s 
and  the  homely  tenement  of  the  Grays ;  and  as 
he  was  an  only  son,  of  large  expectations,  to  the 
further  scandal  of  the  gossips,  his  parents  seemed  to 
view  his  conduct  with  a  total  unconcern.  Indeed,  in 
these  visits,  his  mother  was  almost  his  constant  com¬ 
panion.  When  not  diversified  with  the  society  of  these 
friends,  life,  with  Henrietta,  presented  little  else  than 
one  unvarying  toilsome  round.  Her  household  duties, 
her  struggle  for  sustenance,  and  her  care  of  her  half 
idiotic  and  often  captious  parent,  occupied  her  hands, 
her  thoughts,  and  her  heart;  and  yet  she  had  room 
for  other  sorrows ;  and  withal,  was  not  unhappy. 
The  inscrutable  and  mysterious  fate  of  her  father  and 
her  little  brothers,  was  of  itself  a  burden  hard 'to  be 
borne :  and  yet,  with  all  these  causes  of  depression 
bearing  upon  her,  the  consciousness  of  a  daily  effort 
to  perform  her  duty,  and  above  all,  an  humble  and  sin¬ 
cere  reliance  on  the  goodness  and  care  of  Heaven, 
lightened  her  heart  and  her  footsteps,  and  clothed  her 
brow  with  serenity.  While  the  ills  of  life  are  scat¬ 
tered  with  great  apparent  irregularity,  its  happiness  is 
dispensed  with  far  more  equal  balance  than  is  gene¬ 
rally  imagined. 

Nearly  four  years  thus  wore  away,  when  the  thread 
of  life,  which  for  some  months  had  been  growing 
weaker  and  weaker  with  Mrs.  Gray,  parted;  and 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


85 


Henrietta,  of  all  her  family  was  left.  The  Blanes 
were  with  her  in  her  affliction  ;  and  crowned  their 
generous  kindness  by  offering  her  a  home.  The  sym¬ 
pathies  of  her  own  relatives,  too,  were  so  far  awa¬ 
kened  by  this  last  event,  and  the  desolate  condition  of 
the  stricken  orphan,  that  her  aunt  Totten  made  her  a 
like  offer,  which,  for  obvious  reasons,  Henrietta  pre¬ 
ferred  to  accept.  Her  rooms  were  accordingly  given 
up,  the  humble  furniture  disposed  of,  and  she  became 
domesticated  at  her  aunt’s. 

About  a  month  after  this  event,  Mrs.  Totten’s  ser¬ 
vant,  one  morning,  left  a  couple  of  letters  at  Mr. 
Blane’s.  One  was  addressed  to  Mrs.  Blane,  and  the 
other  to  Arthur ;  and  they  proved  to  be  from  Henri¬ 
etta.  The  one  to  Arthur  was  unsealed,  and  as  fol¬ 
lows  : 

“  Dear  Arthur, — At  a  moment  like  this,  when  I  am 
about  to  be  separated  from  you  for  a  time,  and  possi¬ 
bly  for  ever,  no  feeling  of  delicacy  must  prevent  my 
treating  you  with  the  frankness  due  to  your  noble  and 
generous  nature.  That  I  love  you,  you  will  not 
doubt ;  and  I  am  ready,  so  far  as  my  heart  is  con¬ 
cerned,  to  become  your  wife.  But  I  have  first  another 
and  imperative  duty  to  discharge.  My  inquiries  after 
my  lost  father  and  brothers,  have  at  length,  as  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  been  crowned  with  success.  I  must 
go  to  them.  Do  not  seek  to  follow  me,  or  to  trace 
me  out;  and  if  Heaven  preserve  me,  the  devotion  of 
my  life  shall  repay  you.  But  if  this  be  too  hard,  dear 
Arthur,  take  back  your  plighted  troth,  and  be  only  my 
brother  again.” 


86 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


When  these  letters  arrived,  Arthur  Blane  was  ab¬ 
sent  from  the  city  ;  and  on  his  return,  he  hastened  to 
Mrs.  Totten’s.  From  that  discreet  lady  he  obtained 
little  additional  intelligence.  Henrietta  was  gone ; 
but  where,  if  she  was  in  possession  of  the  secret,  Mrs. 
Totten  was  too  guarded  to  disclose.  His  inquiries  at 
the  several  stage  offices  and  elsewhere,  with  a  view 
to  ascertain  the  direction  she  had  taken,  were  equally 
unsuccessful ;  and  as  this  hope  faded,  gradually  Arthur 
Blane’s  handsome  and  happy  face  assumed  a  length¬ 
ened  and  woe-begone  expression.  As  months  rolled 
away,  he  sunk  into  a  nervous  listlessness,  which  as¬ 
sumed,  in  the  lapse  of  years  during  which  he  heard 
nothing  from  his  betrothed,  more  and  more  the 
character  of  moroseness.  His  only  relief  was  in  tra¬ 
vel  ;  and  what  excited  a  much  greater  amount  of 
remark  was  the  circumstance  that  his  parents,  in  their 
old  age,  were  also  seized  with  a  mania  to  see  the 
world.  During  these  peregrinations,  the  three,  often 
in  company,  visited  most  of  the  towns  in  New  Eng¬ 
land,  explored  a  large  part  of  New  York,  and  pene¬ 
trated,  at  several  points,  the  interminable  West  beyond. 


DE.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


87 


CHAPTER  II. 

The  scene  of  our  little  history  now  changes  to  the 

small  village  of  K - ,  in  the  interior  of  the  State  of 

New  York  :  the  period,  about  two  years  after  the 
sudden  disappearance  of  Dr.  Gray  and  his  children 
from  Boston.  The  village  was  of  no  great  preten¬ 
sion.  It  lay  in  a  wide  valley  encompassed  by  massive, 
but  not  abrupt  hills ;  and  to  the  south  and  east  flowed 
small  meandering  rivers.  It  was  of  sufflcient  age  to 
be  free  from  stumps,  and  the  immediate  enroachments 
of  the  forests ;  possessed  an  air  of  thrift  and  comfort, 
several  respectable  tenements,  and  a  goodly  number 
of  neat  white  cottages,  surrounded  with  ample  grounds 
and  embosomed  in  shrubbery.  But  it  was  laid  out 
absolutely  without  plan.  Its  principal  street  was 
thrice  the  width  usually  granted  to  avenues  of  the 
kind;  and  from  its  northern  extremity,  in  wild  irre¬ 
gularity,  diverged  other  streets  towards  every  conceiv¬ 
able  point  of  the  compass.  Its  principal  ornaments, 
in  the  way  of  buildings,  were  its  churches  and  halls 
of  learning.  Two  respectable  structures,  one  of  stone 
and  the  other  of  brick,  were  devoted  to  the  purposes 
of  an  academy ;  while  several  massive  collegiate  edi¬ 
fices  crowned  a  hill  at  the  south.  The  “  Brick  acad¬ 
emy,”  the  germ  of  two  noble  institutions  of  learning, 
in  the  poverty  of  a  new  settlement,  had  been  built 
and  sustained  as  a  classic  school  through  its  infancy, 


/ 


88 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


by  a  voluntary  mortgage  on  the  property  of  the  prin¬ 
cipal  inhabitants  of  the  place.  These,  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  add,  were  staid  New-Englanders. 

It  was  spring-time,  and  the  buds  and  foliage  of  vil¬ 
lage  and  country  were  just  bursting  into  a  rejoicing 

green, — when,  one  morning,  the  inhabitants  of  K - 

became  awrare  of  an  accession  to  their  numbers.  A 
little  dilapidated  hovel,  standing  on  a  common,  and 
for  a  long  period  untenanted,  had  during  the  night 
been  accommodated  with  occupants.  A  poor  broken- 
down  horse,  hitched  to  a  broken  weather-beaten  cart, 
stood  by  the  shattered  door-way;  and  an  elderly, 
square-built  man,  was  endeavouring,  with  refuse 
boards  and  paper,  to  patch  up  the  open  windows.  In 
the  appearance  of  this  individual  there  was  something 
peculiar.  He  wore  a  faded  lion-skin  coat,  of  large 
dimensions,  and  enormous  pockets ;  and  an  old  slouch¬ 
ed  hat  to  match.  He  was  of  middle  height,  but  thick¬ 
set  and  muscular;  with  a  most  massive  chest  and 
head.  His  face  was  pale  and  wrinkled,  surmounted 
with  a  heavy  Roman  nose,  and  shaded  by  an  abun¬ 
dance  of  short  grizzly  hair.  His  eyebrows  were 
heavy  and  projecting,  and  beneath  them  were  a  pair 
of  cold,  keen,  gray  eyes.  His  head  he  carried  a  little 
on  one  side,  as  though  his  neck  was  stiff ;  and  all  his 
movements  were  made  with  great  deliberation,  and 
an  obtrusive  self-possession.  His  companions — for 
he  was  not  alone — were  three  lads  of,  perhaps,  twelve, 
ten,  and  eight  years  of  age,  ragged  and  filthy,  with¬ 
out  shoes  or  hats ;  their  long,  tangled  locks  sticking 
out  in  every  direction,  and  bleached  almost  white  by 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


89 


exposure  to  the  weather;  and  with  scarcely  clothes 
enough,  such  as  they  were,  to  cover  their  nakedness. 
The  eldest  was  robust  in  appearance  ;  the  next  in 
size  less  so ;  while  the  youngest  was  painfully  frail. 

It  is,  perhaps  needless  to  say,  that  these  indivi¬ 
duals  were  Doctor  Gray  and  his  children.  He  had 
consented  to  the  loss  of  his  standing  in  life,  and  to 
the  disruption  and  degradation  of  his  family,  as  he 
flattered  himself,  from  a  feeling  of  excusable  pride; 
an  inability  to  brave  the  reverses  of  fortune  amid  the 
scenes  of  his  prosperity,  and  to  bear  up  under  the 
sneers  of  rivals  and  the  pity  of  sunshine  friends. 
But  had  he  probed  his  heart  deeper,  he  would  have 
discovered  there  a  consciousness,  that  in  order  to 
regain  his  lost  ground  and  retrieve  his  fortunes,  i* 
was  necessary  for  him  to  relinquish  the  bottle ;  and 
that  for  a  sacrifice  so  great  as  this,  he  was  not  quite 
ready — not  yet.  It  is  unnecessary  to  trace  him 
through  the  two  years  of  intervening  time.  Suffice 
it,  that  he  had  changed  his  place  of  abode  more  than 
•  once,  each  time  sinking  lower  in  the  scale  of  respect¬ 
ability  ;  until  the  little  remnant  of  availables  he  had 
managed  to  smuggle  from  the  city  having  become 
exhausted,  he  and  his  children  were  reduced  to  the 
condition  in  which  they  have  been  described. 

The  inhabitants  of  K - looked  on  him  with  some 

wonder  and  curiosity,  but  nobody  molested  him  :  and 
soon  he  came  to  be  known,  on  what  authority  no  one 
exactly  knew,  as  Doctor  Glegg.  Ere  long,  the  hut  he 
occupied  became  a  charmed  precinct  to  all  the  child¬ 
ren;  for  the  door  was  kept  carefully  closed  against 


90 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


intruders;  and  as  to  windows,  there  was  not  a  pane 
of  glass  in  any  one  of  them ;  or  other  contrivance 
for  the  admission  of  light,  save  a  few  straggling 
patches  of  oiled  paper.  Stolen  glimpses,  it  is  true, 
had  been  caught  by  the  more  curious  of  the  urchins, 
through  the  door-way,  of  a  box,  or  large  chest ,  and, 
it  was  cautiously  whispered  around,  and,  at  length 
among  the  grown-up  and  gray-headed  children  of 
the  place,  that  Doctor  Glegg  was  a  miser ;  and  that 
the  chest  in  question  contained  his  gold. 

But  the  Doctor  was  poor  enough ;  so  poor,  that  his 
miserable  and  cheerless  tenement  was  rarely  out  of 
the  reach  of  absolute  want.  Indeed,  it  is  surprising 
how  he  and  his  wretched  children  managed  to  live  at 
all.  Unfitted  by  the  habits  of  his  life  for  manual 
labour ;  and  maintaining,  even  in  his  most  abject  de¬ 
gradation,  a  sort  of  personal  respect,  which  forbade  a 
resort  to  menial  offices,  his  sphere  of  exertion  was 
limited.  Instead,  therefore,  of  resorting  to  days' 
works,  he  planted  patches  of  corn  and  potatoes,  on 
shares ;  and  secured  a  little  hay  in  the  same  manner, 
for  the  benefit  of  his  famished  horse ;  and  in  place  of 
the  carriage  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed,  he  rode 
to  and  from  his  fields  in  his  cart ;  while  his  elfin  boys 
scoured  the  commons  for  refuse  wood,  and,  bare¬ 
headed  and  bare  legged,  waded  and  fished  in  the 
streams. 

As  time  passed  on,  Doctor  Glegg  became  more  and 
more  an  object  of  curiosity.  It  was  evident  to  all, 
that  he  was  intemperate ;  but  he  was  never  seen 
drunk,  and  was  never  vulgar  or  profane.  It  was 


/ 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


91 


perceived  that  he  was  a  man  of  learning  and  of  parts ; 
and  that  his  conversation  was  a  singular  mixture  of 
wit  and  wisdom,  of  bombast  and  simplicity,  according 
to  the  circumstances  under  which  he  was  accosted. 
With  men  of  sense  he  talked  sense ;  with  scholars,  he 
was  scholastic ;  with-  fools,  bombastic ;  and  -to  those 
who  pressed  him  with  an  impertinent  curiosity,  he 
was  utterly  unintelligible.  To  the  last  class  his  re¬ 
plies  were  somewhat  after  this  sort : 

“  Mon  Dieu  !  man  is  a  curious  biped,  made  up  of 
the  most  heterogeneous,  and  incomprehensible  parts. 
Procul!  procul!  scat!  Neither  him  nor  his  conco¬ 
mitants  have  I  any  desire  to  know ;  but  consign  them 
all,  in  one  conglomerated  mass,  to  the  crocus  acclicatus 
of  the  common  cantP 

Others,  however,  who  fell  into  casual  conversation 
with  him,  and  did  not  attempt  to  pry  into  his  circum¬ 
stances,  or  the  events  of  his  life  found  his  mind  well 
stored  with  a  variety  of  information,  which  he  was 
capable  of  imparting  in  forcible  and  appropriate  lan¬ 
guage.  A  student  of  the  Academy  having  politely 
accosted  him,  Dr.  Gray  said, 

“  You  are  in  pursuit  of  knowledge,  my  young  sir: 
and  among  all  the  attainments  after  which  the  scholar 
should  strive,  nothing  is  more  important  than  a  just 
appreciation  of  his  mother  tongue.  Allow  me  to  in¬ 
quire  of  you,  what  is  the  chief  element  of  good  com¬ 
position?” 

“Simplicity,”  replied  the  student. 

“The  question  is  well  answered,”  continued  the 
doctor;  “De  Witt  Clinton  himself  could  not  have  re* 


/ 


92 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


plied  more  justly.  To  know  what  we  wish  to  com¬ 
municate,  and  then  to  make  the  communication  in 
just  those  exact  words  necessary  to  convey  the  whole 
idea,  constitute  the  chief  excellence  of  style.” 

A  rough  person,  having  taken  it  upon  himself  to 
abuse  Dr.  Gray,  and  to  heap  on  him  a  volume  of  oaths 
and  profane  epithets,  the  old  man  listened  for  some 
time  in  silence.  At  length  he  quietly  remarked  : 

“  Sir,  you  cannot  swear.” 

“  Swear,  old  curmudgeon  ! — what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“  It  requires  sense,  sir,”  continued  the  doctor,  “  to 
swear.  You  may  use  the  words,  but  you  cannot 
swear.” 

Thus  lived,  or  rather  existed,  Dr.  Gray  and  his 

children  in  the  village  of  K - ,  for  a  period  of  two 

years ;  when  an  event  occurred  which  wrought  &  gra¬ 
dual  change  in  their  condition.  There  arrived  in  the 
stage  from  the  East,  a  pale  and  delicate,  but  sweet¬ 
eyed  young  woman,  dressed  in  deep  black ;  who,  hav¬ 
ing  attended  to  the  safe  disposition  of  her  baggage  at 
the  hotel,  inquired  for  the  residence  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Trimble,  It  was  shown  to  her,  and  she  at  once  bent 
her  steps  in  that  direction. 

The  stranger  lady  approached  the  dwelling  of  the 
clergyman,  not  without  trepidation.  Brushing  an 
unbidden  tear  from  her  eye,  she  raised  the  knocker 
with  a  shaking  hand,  but  her  heart  and  her  determi¬ 
nation  were  constant,  for  it  \vas  none  other  than  Hen¬ 
rietta  Gray.  She  found  Mr.  Trimble  at  home;  and 
more  than  that,  a  kind  and  feeling  man.  She 
told  to  him  her  little  story,  and  exhibited  to  him  her 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


93 


certificate  of  membership  in  one  of  the  churches  of 
Boston,  as  a  voucher  for  her  honesty,  if,  indeed,  any 
thing  else  were  wanting  than  her  sweet  countenance 
and  modest  deportment. 

The  good  man  entered  heartily  into  the  object  of 
her  mission ;  informed  her  that  Dr.  Glegg  and  the 
three  children  were  still  in  K - ;  and  from  his  ac¬ 

count  of  them,  she  became  more  fully  confirmed  in 
the  supposition  that  they  were  no  other  than  her  lost 
father  and  brothers.  To  change  probability  into  a 
certainty,  however,  with  a  small  daughter  of  Mr. 
Trimble  as  her  cicerone,  she  strolled  into  the  quarter 
of  the  village  where  stood  Dr.  Glegg’s  hut, — and  saw 
and  recognized  her  parent.  She  also  passed  quite 
near  one  or  two  of  the  boys ;  but  in  their  changed 
condition,  she  failed  to  discover  any  thing  which  bore 
resemblance  to  the  well-fed,  well-clothed,  and  happy 
children  she  had  known.  In  great  agitation  of  feel¬ 
ing,  she  returned  to  Mr.  Trimble’s  house ;  and  ac¬ 
cepted  a  cordial  invitation  from  him  and  his  kind 
lady,  to  pass  the  night  with  them. 


/ 


94 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


CHAPTER  III. 

On  the  following  morning  Henrietta  found  herself 
refreshed  from  the  fatigues  of  her  journey,  and  in  a 
condition  of  mind  and  body  to  proceed  in  the  accom¬ 
plishment  of  her  purposes.  Her  new  friend,  Mr. 
Trimble,  introduced  her  at  once  into  a  highly  respec¬ 
table  family,  wdiere  she  took  a  room  and  board ;  and 
himself  arranged  an  interview  between  her  and  her 
brothers.  Her  baggage  was  hardly  transported  from 
the  hotel  to  her  new  quarters,  before  they  arrived : 
and  ragged  and  filthy  as  they  were,  were  clasped 
over  and  over  again  to  her  heart,  and  bathed  in  her 
tears. 

She  found  them  as  wild  as  the  untamed  colts  of  the 
desert.  Dick,  the  eldest,  after  some  little  conversa¬ 
tion,  remembered  her;  and  she  perceived,  on  study¬ 
ing  his  countenance,  that  some  of  his  former  features 
remained.  But  with  the  others,  William  and  Henry, 
there  was  no  recognition  on  either  side;  and  the  two 
little  fellows  endured  her  caresses  in  sullen  silence, 
as  though  in  doubt  of  the  whole  proceeding. 

An  hour  was  devoted  to  the  joy  and  sorrow  of  the 
meeting  ;  and  then  Henrietta  assisted  her  brothers  to 
cleanse  themselves,  bathing  them  thorougly  from  head 
to  foot,  and  cutting  and  smoothing  their  matted  hair. 
This  done,  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  taking  them 
by  the  hand,  walked  out  into  the  business  street  of 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


95 


the  village.  From  her  slender  means  she  furnished 
them  with  hats  and  shoes,  and  purchased  cloth  for 
garments,  all  of  a  cheap  but  substantial  quality,  ap¬ 
propriate  to  their  condition  :  and  telling  them  to  come 
again  on  the  morrow,  with  good  advice  and  soothing 
words  of  encouragement  and  tenderness,  she  sent 
them  home,  i 

For  a  large  part  of  the  succeeding  night,  Henri¬ 
etta,  happy,  and  even  joyous,  plied  her  busy  needle ; 
and  on  the  following  day,  several  of  the  garments 
came  from  her  hand,  finished;  but  the  children  did 
not  appear.  Restless  in  consequence  as  the  night 
approached,  she  walked  into  the  street,  and  naturally 
turned  her  footsteps  towards  the  quarter  where  they 
resided.  From  the  first  she  would  gladly  have  seen 
her  father,  and  have  included  him  directly  in  her 
mission  of  love  and  mercy.  But  this  she  feared  to  do. 
He  had  never  been  familiar  with  his  children;  she 
well  understood  the  pride  and  selfish  stubbornness  of 
his  character ;  and  in  studying  her  plans,  she  had  de¬ 
termined  it  safest  for  their  success,  not  to  intrude  upon 
him,  but  to  leave  him  to  make  the  first  advances,  or 
to  chance,  to  bring  them  together.  She  suspected 
that  he  had  forbidden  the  children  to  see  her,  but  for 
this  she  was  prepared.  Passing  the  hut,  she  dis¬ 
covered  Dick  in  the  road  beyond,  and  accosting  him, 
learned  that  her  suspicions  were  correct.  Her  father 

on  hearing  of  her  presence  in  K - ,  and  interview 

with  her  brothers,  had  manifested  considerable  un¬ 
easiness,  and  peremptorily  forbidden  them  to  see  her 
again.  Placing  the  garments  she  had  brought  in  her 


* 


96 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


brothers’  hands,  she  expressed  an  ardent  hope  that  her 
father  would  recall  the  prohibition,  and  even  that  he 
would  soon  allow  her  to  see  him ;  and  retired. 

But  the  next  day  brought  no  change;  and  on  the 
following  morning,  having  completed  the  rest  of  the 
garments,  she  again  walked  towards  the  hut.  This 
time  she  found  her  father  in  the  road,  harnessing  his 
poor  old  horse,  and  was  obliged  either  to  turn  back, 
or  to  pass  him.  She  chose  the  latter  alternative ;  and 
as  she  came  near,  he  turned  suspiciously  upon  her, 
regarded  her  coldly  and  sternly,  but  without  speaking 
Greatly  agitated,  Henrietta  extended  her  arms  towards 
him,  and  uttered  the  word  “  father.” 

Dr.  Gray  turned  away,  and  walked  to  his  door. 

“  My  dear  father  !”  said  she,  in  the  most  beseech¬ 
ing  tones,  “  will  you  not  own  me?” 

Dr.  Gray  leaned  against  the  gate,  with  his  back 
towards  her,  apparently  as  much  affected  as  herself. 
He  shook  as  though  with  an  ague  fit,  and  with  a 
strong  effort  at  last  managed  to  say,  in  a  broken,  hol¬ 
low  voice : 

“  Go  away !  I  know  you  not,  and  will  not  know 
you !” 

Poor  Henrietta  hung  her  gifts  for  her  outcast 
brothers  upon  the  broken  fence  near  her  wretched 
father,  and  departed  with  a  sad  heart.  But  her  con¬ 
stancy  was  rewarded.  That  afternoon  her  little 
brothers  were  permitted  to  visit  her  again  ;  and  from 
that  time  forward  their  intercourse  was  uninterrupted. 
Soon  she  had  all  her  plans  for  their  benefit  in  success¬ 
ful  operation.  Her  industry  and  skill  with  her  needle, 


DR.  GRAY  AND  IIIS  DAUGHTER. 


97 


aided,  perhaps,  by  sympathy,  and  the  little  air  of  ro¬ 
mance  which  surrounded  her,  gave  her  an  abundance 
of  employment;  her  three  brothers  spent  much  of 
each  day  with. her:  and  as  she  worked,  she  heard 
their  lessons,  conversed  with  them,  and  gave  them 
instruction,  so  far  as  she  was  able,  in  every  depart¬ 
ment  of  knowledge  which  she  deemed  necessary  to 
their  success  in  life.  Her  little  workshop  became  a 
school  of  the  most  practical  and  valuable  kind. 

Neither  did  Henrietta  forget  her  father,  or  cease 
her  efforts  to  ameliorate  his  condition.  Though  she 
held  no  direct  intercourse  with  him,  through  her 
prudently-exerted  influence  he  was  induced  to  remove 
to  more  comfortable  quarters,  where  she  managed  to 
surround  him  with  most  of  the  necessaries,  and 
eventually,  to  supply  him  with  many  of  the  little 
comforts  of  life,  to  which,  latterly,  he  had  been  a 
stranger.  She  even  visited  his  rooms  in  his  absence, 
attended  to  their  cleanliness,  and  conferred  upon 
them  those  little  graces  and  finishing  touches  which 
woman  alone  can  bestow.  She  also  attended  to  his 
wardrobe,  kept  it  in  repair,  and  added  to  it,  from  time 
to  time,  as  her  own  means  permitted,  and  his  wants 
required.  He,  meanwhile,  though  he  still  refused  to 
see  her,  regarded  her,  not  in  his  superficial  mind  so 
clearly,  but  in  his  innermost  soul,  as  a  ministering 
angel, — and  blessed  her. 

Thus  nearly  three  years  passed  away.  During 
this  time  Henrietta  had  several  times  heard  from  her 
aunt  Totten,  and  through  her  of  the  uneasiness  of  her 
good  friends,  the  Blanes.  This  she  deeply  regretted, 


98 


D  R.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER 


and  would  gladly  have  relieved,  had  her  own  strong 
sense  of  propriety  and  duty  permitted.  But  to  have 
informed  them  of  her  plans  would  have  been  to 
defeat  them.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Arthur 
Blane  would  have  consented  to  remain  in  quiet  expec¬ 
tancy  of  a  wife  while  she  should  devote  two  or  three 
years  of  her  life  to  the  care  of  her  dissolute  and  thank¬ 
less  father,  and  to  the  uncertain  task  of  rescuing  and 
reclaiming  her  vagabond  brothers.  Yet  to  the  mind 
of  Henrietta,  when  she  had  once  succeeded  in  dis¬ 
covering  where  they  were,  this  was  her  first  duty  ; 
in  comparison  with  which,  all  else,  her  own  hopes 
and  prospects  in  life,  and  even  the  temporary  happi¬ 
ness  of  him  she  loved  most  faithfully  and  deeply  sunk 
into  insignificance.  In  the  rescuing  and  training  of 
those  helpless  children,  there  was  a  great  work  to  be 
done;  and  to  her  it  was  clear,  that  it  belonged  to  her¬ 
self,  their  sister,  and  the  eldest,  to  do  it ;  and  further, 
that  if  she  shrunk  from  the  undertaking,  it  never 
would  be  accomplished.  So  strong  in  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  the  rectitude  of  her  heart  and  her  actions,  she 
looked  back  without  regret,  if  not  always  without  sor¬ 
row,  as  she  thought  of  her  almost  dissipated  dream  of 
life  and  love  with  Arthur  Blane ;  and  forward  with 
that  cheering  hope  which  the  just  and  trustful  have 
in  heaven. 

At  this  period  Dr.  Gray  was  prostrated  by  a  sudden 
stroke  of  paralysis,  and  Henrietta  hesitated  no  longer. 
She  hastened  to  his  bedside,  and  gave  him  the  watch¬ 
ful  care  and  tender  solicitude  of  a  daughter.  He  never 
recovered  sufficiently  to  speak  ;  but  he  knew  her,  and 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


99 


* 


THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  GRAY. 


his  proud  and  stubborn  heart  was  at  last  softened.  He 
expressed  his  gratitude  by  mute  signs;  and  pressing 
her  hand  in  his,  expired. 

This  event  released  Henrietta  from  a  necessary  con¬ 
finement  to  the  village  of  K - .  Her  brothers  were 

now  greatly  improved ;  and,  under  her  skilful  train¬ 
ing,  had  made  respectable  advances  in  manners, 
morals,  and  education.  They  had  proved  apt  pupils, 
with  kind  and  affectionate  natures;  and  their  sister’s 
unwonted  love  and  purity  had  assimilated  them  much 
and  readilv  to  herself.  But  in  case  of  her  own  re- 
turn,  she  did  not  propose  to  take  them  to  the  city.  A 

country  life  she  considered  most  conducive  to  their 

8 


100 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


happiness,  virtue,  and  manhood  :  and  accordingly  set 
about  providing  them  with  suitable  homes.  Dick 
chose  to  be  a  farmer;  and  William  and  Henry,  now 
grown  into  robust  lads,  selected  mechanical  occupa¬ 
tions.  Aided  by  the  kindness  and  interest  of  the 

most  respectable  citizens  of  K - ,  good  places  were 

soon  found,  and  the  boys  were  properly  bestowed. 

The  death  of  her  father  was  announced  by  Hen¬ 
rietta  to  her  aunt  Totten  very  soon  after  its  occur¬ 
rence  ;  and  that  hitherto  discreet  lady  at  once  “  took 
the  responsibility”  of  consulting  the  Blanes  as  to  the 
future  movements  of  her  niece.  The  consequence  of 
this  unauthorized  proceeding  was  the  arrival  in  the 

village  of  K - ,  in  a  very  few  days,  of  a  barouche, 

containing  the  whole  Blane  family.  Arthur’s  hand¬ 
some  face,  so  his  mother  declared,  within  a  week,  had 
shed  a  most  solemn  bevy  of  incipient  wrinkles,  and 
shortened  half  an  inch ;  and  the  crimson  which  man¬ 
tled  on  the  cheek  of  Henrietta,  as  they  met,  did  not, 
by  any  means,  detract  from  the  graces  of  her  meek, 
but  now  blooming  and  mature  beauty. 

A  day  or  two  later,  through  the  agency  of  the 
Blanes,  who  all  at  once  became  active  in  the  affairs 

of  the  little  village  of  K - ,  a  council  was  held  at 

the  Bev.  Mr.  Trimble’s  at  which  it  was  decided, 
that,  under  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  the  present 
case,  it  was  meet  and  proper  that  Henrietta  Gray 
should  return  to  Boston  in  no  other  capacity  than  as 
Mrs.  Arthur  Blane.  On  the  morning  of  their  depar¬ 
ture,  accordingly,  the  marriage  ceremony  was  sol¬ 
emnized. 


DR.  GRAY  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


101 


The  principal  personages  in  this  little  history,  we 
believe,  are  still  living.  Henrietta  is  a  happy  wife, 
surrounded  with  an  interesting  family;  and  her  three 
brothers,  who  have  learned  so  well  to  know  the  depth 
and  purity  of  a  sister’s  love,  are  respectable  and 
thriving  citizens  of  one  of  the  western  States. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


♦ 


By  T.  S.  Arthur. 


“  Alfred,”  said  a  mother,  in  whose  life-glass  the 
sands  were  ehbing  low,  “  Alfred,  my  dear  hoy !  I 
shall  be  with  yon  only  a  little  while  longer.  To  your 
care  J  commit  this  dear  child,  your  sister,  now  sleep¬ 
ing  before  you  so  sweetly.  Alone  you  will  be  in  the 
world.  Love  her,  Alfred,  and  care  for  her.  Be  to 
her  father,  mother,  and  brother,  all  in  one.” 

The  mother’s  voice  here  choked  with  rising  sobs, 
and  she  sunk  back,  exhausted,  upon  the  pillow  from 
which  she  had  arisen.  The  boy,  scarcely  compre¬ 
hending  the  nature  of  the  evil  about  to  befall  him,  or 
the  importance  of  the  solemn  charge  he  was  receiv¬ 
ing,  wept  in  sympathy,  and  mingled  his  tears  with 
those  of  his  fast  failing  parent. 

A  few  weeks  afterwards,  Alfred  Lovell,  an  orphan, 

stood  beside  his  little  sister  Mary  at  the  graves  of 

both  their  parents.  Long  rank  grass  covered  that  of 

their  father;  but  the  earth  was  heaped  up,  yellow 

and  verdureless,  above  the  spot  where  the  mother’s 

faded  remains  had  been  consigned  to  their  eternal 

rest.  But  ten  years  old,  Alfred  scarcely  compre 
(102) 


BROTHER  AND  S  IS  TER. 


103 


hended  the  extent  of  his  loss,  and  little  Mary,  who  had 
seen  only  half  as  many  summers,  smiled  from  her 
own  pleasant  thoughts,  while  the  mourners  stood  with 
bowed  heads,  and  the  preacher’s  voice  was  raised  in 
solemn  prayer. 

Back  from  the  old  burial-place,  where,  beneath  the 
shadow  of  two  elms  that  had  braved  the  storms  of 
a  century,  were  made  the  graves  of  their  parents, 
the  children  returned  to  the  home  in  which  they  had 
lived  since  the  light  of  existence  dawned  upon  them. 
But  this  was  no  longer  to  be  their  home.  Relatives, 
into  whose  keeping  the  children  now  fell,  decided 
upon  their  separation.  Mary  was  taken  by  an  aunt, 
a  Mrs.  Edwards,  to  raise  as  her  own  child,  and  Alfred 
was  sent  away  some  two  hundred  miles  to  a  boarding 
school,  there  to  remain  until  his  education  was  com¬ 
pleted.  A  small  property  had  been  left,  and  this  was 
invested  for  their  benefit. 

Not  until  the  lapse  of  four  years  did  the  brother 
and  sister  meet  again.  Mary,  now  in  her  tenth  year, 
was  playing  with  her  doll,  one  morning  in  August, 
when  a  tall  lad  entered  the  room  where  she  sat,  and 
stood  looking  at  her  for  some  moments. 

“  Mary!”  he  at  length  said,  in  a  voice  that  slightly 
trembled. 

The  child  started  and  looked  up  into  his  face  eagerly. 

“  Mary,  don’t  you  know  your  brother  Alfred?”  said 
he,  with  something  of  disappointment  in  his  tone. 

Quick  as  thought  the  child  sprung  from  her  chair, 
and,  throwing  her  arms  around  the  lad,  hid  her  face  on 
his  bosom  and  cried  for  joy. 


104 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


A  happy  meeting  was  it  for  the  brother  and  sister 
after  this  long  separation.  Alfred  had  been  permitted 
to  visit  his  aunt,  and  spend  with  Mary  his  August 
vacation.  For  reasons,  satisfactory  at  least  to  those 
who  had  the  guardianship  of  the  children,  they  had 
not  been  permitted  to  see  each  other  since  the  death 
of  their  mother,  until  this  time.  Nor  would  the  meet¬ 
ing  now  have  been  allowed  but  for  the  interference 
of  a  relative,  who  spoke  so  strongly  against  the  par¬ 
ticular  reasons  which  influenced  the  aunt,  who  had 
adopted  Mary,  in  her  views  of  separation,  that  the 
latter  waived  the  objections  which,  heretofore,  kept 
the  brother  and  sister  in  the  relation  of  strangers  to 
each  other. 

A  happy  meeting,  as  we  have  said,  was  this  for  the 
brother  and  sister.  Scarcely  a  moment  were  they 
apart  during  the  three  or  four  weeks  that  Alfred  re¬ 
mained  with  Mrs.  Edwards  their  aunt,  weeks  that  flew 
by  as  if  they  had  been  only  days. 

At  the  time  of  their  separation,  Mary  was  too 
young  to  comprehend  the  nature  of  the  loss  she  had 
sustained — a  loss  scarcely  felt  in  consequence  of  the 
tender  care  with  which  she  was  received  into  the 
family  of  Mrs.  Edwards,  who,  having  no  children  of 
her  own,  permitted  her  affections  to  flow  forth  and 
centre  upon  the  child  of  her  adoption.  She  did  not, 
therefore,  bear  in  her  mind  a  very  strong  remem¬ 
brance  of  her  mother.  It  was  far  different  in  the 
case  of  Alfred.  With  the  death  of  his  last  surviv¬ 
ing  parent  came  a  sad  change  for  him.  At  once  he 
was  removed  from  all  the  pleasant  associations  of 


I 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  105 

early  life,  and  his  lot  cast  among-  unsympathizing 
strangers.  A  child  of  but  ten  years,  how  painful 
were  his  first  experiences  !  How  yearningly,  in  the 
sad  homesickness  that  followed,  did  his  heart  go  back 
to  the  old  place!  How  vividly  arose  in  his  mind 
images  of  former  times,  in  which  his  mother’s  pre¬ 
sence  made  the  joy  and  the  sunshine!  Then  the 
music  of  her  voice  was  in  his  ears,  and  he  could  feel 
the  gentle  pressure  of  her  hand  upon  his  head. 

Sad  indeed  were  his  first  year’s  experiences.  After 
this  the  native  lightness  of  his  spirits  reacted.  He  be¬ 
came  a  boy  among  boys,  full  of  life  and  activity  ;  and, 
what  wTas  worse,  imbibed,  too  readily,  the  vices  of 
those  -with  whom  he  was  thrown  into  association.  On 
being  permitted  to  visit  his  aunt,  who  lived  near  by 
the  old  homestead,  every  object  that  he  saw  brought 
back  the  past  and  filled  his  mind  with  old  associa¬ 
tions.  Daily,  with  Mary  by  his  side,  he  rambled 
about  among  the  scenes  so  well  remembered,  connect¬ 
ing  with  each  familiar  thing  that  met  his  sight,  some 
incident  that  was  half  forgotten. 

One  day,  soon  after  his  return,  he  had  wandered  some 
distance  from  the  residence  of  his  aunt,  with  Mary, 
his  almost  constant  companion  by  his  side,  when  he 
found  himself  near  the  graveyard  where  rested  all  that 
was  mortal  of  his  parents. 

“  Our  father  and  mother  were  buried  here,  Mary,” 
said  he,  as  he  leaned  upon  the  fence  that  inclosed  the 
spot  sacred  to  the  ashes  of  the  dead  ;  “  let  us  go  in  and 
look  at  their  graves.” 

A  feeling  of  sadness  had  come  over  the  boy.  Most 


106  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

vividly  did  he  remember  the  time  when  he  saw  the 
coffin  of  his  mother  lowered  into  the  earth,  and  heard 
the  hollow  rattling  of  the  clods  upon  the  narrow 
house  in  which  she  was  sleeping.  Climbing  the 
fence,  Alfred  assisted  Mary  over,  and  in  a  few  mi¬ 
nutes  they  were  standing  beside  the.  grass-covered 
hillocks  that  marked  the  resting-place  of  their  pa¬ 
rents.  It  was  the  first  time  Mary  had  been  there 

»y 

since  her  mother’s  burial ;  and  that  scene  had  so 
faded  from  her  memory,  that  scarcely  a  vestige  re¬ 
mained.  But  tears  were  in  Alfred’s  eyes,  and  slowly 
falling  over  his  face;  she  wept  with  him,  and  felt 
sad  at  heart. 

Word  for  word  of  the  solemn  charge  the  boy’s  mo¬ 
ther  had  given  him  on  her  dying  bed  concerning  his 
sister,  came  up  in  his  memory ;  and,  as  he  drew'  his 
arm  around  Mary,  and  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  he 
resolved  never  to  forget  this  last  sacred  injunction. 
Vivid  w7as  the  impression  that  all  this  made  upon  the 
heart  of  Mary ;  young  as  she  w7as,  it  fixed  itself  so 
deeply,  that  she  never  afterward  could  forget  it. 

When  the  vacation  closed,  Alfred  went  back  to 
school,  and  five  years  elapsed  before  he  was  again 
.  permitted  to  see  his  sister.  He  wras  then  a  tall,  hand¬ 
some  young  man,  and  she  a  beautiful  girl  in  her  fif¬ 
teenth  year.  They  met  with  the  warmest  demonstra¬ 
tions  of  affection,  and  spent  two  or  three  wre£ks  to¬ 
gether.  Then  they  separated  again — Alfred  to  enter 
a  mercantile  house  in  New  York,  and  Mary  to  re¬ 
main  with  her  aunt,  wlio  lived  about  twenty  miles 
from  Philadelphia. 


i 


aiARV  A3J I)  ALFRED  AT  THE  GttAYES  OF  TUEIR  PAUEXTS 


(107) 


* 


. 


* 

*. 


; 


-  *  *  ♦  •  - 


s 


. 

if  i  i 


/ 


. 


■ 


I 


' 


» 


< 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


109 


In  passing  through  college,  Alfred  Lovell  had  ac¬ 
quired  habits  of  a  dangerous  kind.  With  three  or 
four  young  men  from  the  South,  who  were  always 
well  supplied  with  money,  he  had  formed  an  intimate 
acquaintance,  and  following  their  example,  indulged 
himself  in  every  sensual  gratification  within  his 
reach.  On  leaving  college,  the  President  of  the  in¬ 
stitution,  who  had  observed  with  pain  the  evil  habits 
acquired  by  the  young  man,  earnestly  warned  him 
of  the  danger  that  was  in  his  path.  But  the  warning 
had  little  effect. 

With  no  one  to  counsel,  and  no  home  circle  into 
which  affection  could  draw  him,  the  position  of  Alfred 
Lovell  was  even  worse  in  New  York  than  while  he 
was  at  college.  At  the  end  of  two  years,  when  he 
attained  his  majority  and  came  into  the  possession 
of  about  ten  thousand  dollars,  he  needed  a  guardian 
more  than  at  almost  any  former  period  of  his  life. 
Among  the  vices  into  which  he  had  fallen,  that  pa¬ 
rent  of  all  other  vices,  the  habit  of  drinking  intoxicat¬ 
ing  liquors,  was  included.  This  placed  him  in  the 
highway  to  ruin. 

“Alfred,”  said  the  merchant  in  whose  .counting- 
room  the  young  man  had  been  for  two  years,  “  I  wish 
to  speak  a  word  with  you  in  private.” 

Alfred  Lovell,  anticipating  some  proposition  look¬ 
ing  to  his  future  worldly  advantage,  accompanied  the 
staid,  thrifty  merchant,  into  his  private  room. 

“  Alfred,”  said  this  individual  after  they  were  seated, 
“you  are  now  of  age.” 


» 


110  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

The  young  man  bowed. 

“  For  two  years,”  continued  the  merchant,  “you 
have  been  in  my  service,  and  I  have  found  you  intel¬ 
ligent  in  business  matters,  and,  in  the  main,  true  to 
my  interests.  During  the  whole  of  this  time,  I  have 
observed  you  closely,  with  a  purpose  in  my  mind. 
That  purpose  was  to  see  how  far  it  would  be  desira¬ 
ble  to  connect  you  and  my  son  in  business  in  a  branch 
of  our  business  in  Cincinnati.” 

Albert  felt  an  instant  elevation  of  spirits,  and  saw 
himself,  thus  connected,  in  the  highway  to  fortune. 

“  But” — how  that  little  word  dashed  his  feelings — 
“I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  your  habits  are  of  so  loose 
and  dangerous  a  character,  that  I  do  not  think  it  safe 
to  make  the  association  contemplated.  I  would  not 
have  pained  you  by  this  announcement  but  in  the 
hope  that  the  pain  would  be  salutarjy  and  lead  to  an 
entire  reform  in  your  habits.  You  now  see  how  a 
young  man,  who  indulges  in  drinking  and  other  vices, 
mars  his  prospects  for  life.  Capital  is  always  ready 
to  seek  out  the  right  kind  of  ability ;  but  it  as  care¬ 
fully  regards  sobriety  and  moral  character,  as  it  does 
ability ;  for  there  is  no  safety  in  the  latter  unless 
guaranteed  by  the  former.” 

It  so  happened  that,  in  the  elation  of  feeling  conse¬ 
quent  upon  the  arrival  of  his  twenty-first  birth-day, 
Alfred  had,  during  the  morning,  indulged  freely  in 
drinking  champaign  with  some  friends.  In  conse¬ 
quence,  his  mind  was  neither  very  clear  nor  well  ba¬ 
lanced.  But  for  this,  he  would  not  have  replied  as 
he  did. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


Ill 


“  Was  I  brought  in  here  merely  to  suffer  insult?” 
he  exclaimed,  when  the  merchant  ceased  speaking. 

“  No was  calmly  replied.  “  My  purpose  was  to 
startle  you  into  a  vivid  consciousness  of  your  dan¬ 
ger,  in  the  hope  of  saving  you  from  the  ruin  that 
must  come  if  you  go  forward  in  the  path  you  have 
entered.” 

<  • 

“  I  thank  no  one  for  such  interference  in  my 
affairs !”  retorted  the  blind  and  heated  young  man. 

“Very  well,  sir!  very  well!”  answered  the  mer¬ 
chant;  the  anger  he  felt  at  this  reaction  beginning  to 
manifest  itself.  “  I  shall  interfere  no  more.  Go  your 
own  way ;  and,  when  it  ends  in  destruction,  remem¬ 
ber  that  you  were  forwarned.  I  had  intended  offer¬ 
ing  you  an  increase  of  salary ;  but  now  I  would  pre¬ 
fer  retaining  you  in  my  service  no  longer.  When  a 
young  man  gives  me  any  impertinence,  I  dismiss 
him.  You  are  at  liberty  to  get  yourself  another 
place.” 

Alfred  attempted  to  reply ;  but  the  merchant 
waved  him  from  the  room  with  an  imperative  motion 
of  the  hand,  at  the  same  time  turning  from  him  to 
the  desk  at  which  he  had  seated  himself. 

The  young  man  then  retired,  but  with  more  sober 
feelings  than  when  he  came  in.  Soon  after,  he  left 
the  store.  How  suddenly  had  the  bright  morning 
that  opened  on  his  majority  become  clouded  !  And 
from  his  own  evil  habits  went  up  the  vapours  that 
obscured  the  sun. 

Stung  to  the  quick  at  having  been  dismissed  from 
the  service  of  the  merchant,  young  Lovell  shrunk 


112  BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

from  applying  to  any  other  house  in  the  city  for  a 
situation  as  clerk. 

,  ,  -V  ;  ,  •>.  \1'.  t  *  '  *  '  -  .  .  .  •  \  » 

X  .  ,  •  •  *  '  -  %  f  /I  .  ■ 

“  I’ll  go  into  business,”  said  he  to  himself,  as  he 

Sr.  ......  .  ■ 

sat  reflecting  on  the  position  in  which  he  found  him¬ 
self  placed.  “  I  have  capital,  and  I  have,  also,  the 
requisite  mercantile  knowledge.” 

From  that  moment  his  thoughts  ran  in  a  new 
channel.  After  the  required  preliminaries,  Alfred* 
came  fully  into  possession  of  the  little  property  left 
to  him  at  the  death  of  his  mother  ;  and,  on  this  basis, 
before  he  attained  his  twenty-second  year,  com¬ 
menced  business  for  himself. 

The  early  and  long-continued  separation  between 

V.  •’ 

the  brother  and  sister  had  wrought  so  entire  an  es¬ 
trangement,  that  they  rarely  thought  of  each  other. 
Twice,  since  he  left  college,  had  Alfred  visited  Mary ; 
but  she  appeared  shy  of  him,  and  he  did  not  feel 
very  strongly  attracted  towards  her. 

As  the  sister’s  mind  developed  towards  woman¬ 
hood,  however,  ^he  began  to  think  oftener,  and  with 
an  awakening  interest  of  her  brother.  This  inte¬ 
rest  was  quickened  into  life  when  she  attained  her 
eighteenth  year;  and,  from  that  time,  her  heart 
turned  towards  him  with  an  affectionate  concern  that 
gained  strength  daily.  The  cause  of  this  change,  we 

will  relate;  1  •  * . 

There  had  been  found  among  the  papers  of  Mrs. 
Lovell,  after  her  death,  a  sealed  letter  addressed  to 
her  daughter,  to  be  placed  in  her  hands  when  she 
attained  her  eighteenth  year.  The  request  of  the 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


118 


deceased  mother  was  complied  with  at  the  proper 
time.  Her  letter  was  as  follows : — 

“  My  dear  Daughter,— As  I  write  this,  yon  are 
playing  about  my  room,  a  happy  child,  and  all  uncon¬ 
scious  of  the  great  loss  you  will  soon  have  to  bear  in 
the  death  of  your  mother.  Not  long  have  I  now  to 
remain  upon  the  earth.  The  sands  in  my  glass  have 
run  low;  the  life-blood  in  my  heart  is  ebbing;  a  few 
more  fluttering  pulses,  and  my  spirit  will  take  its 
flight  from  earth. — Ah,  my  child!  not  until  you  are 
yourself  a  mother,  can  you  understand  how  I  am  dis¬ 
tressed  at  the  thought  of  leaving  you  alone  in  this 
selfish  and  cruel  world !  But  I  will  not  linger  on 
this  theme. 

“  Mary,  when  this  letter  is  placed  in  your  hands, 
you  will  be  a  woman — w*ith  the  heart,  I  trust,  as  well 
as  the  developed  mind  of  a  woman.  Your  aunt  Helen 
has  promised  to  take  you,  and  raise  you  as  her  own 
child.  You,  therefore,  will  scarcely  feel,  I  hope,  your 
loss.  But  it  will  be  different  with  your  brother  Alfred. 
A  somewhat  waywrard  boy,  he  has  never  made  many 
friends,  and  none  will  be  so  patient  and  forbearing  to¬ 
wards  him  as  I  have  been.  Most  probably  he  wflll  be 
sent  to  some  boarding-school,  kept  there  until  old 
enough  to  commence  the  study  of  a  profession.  There 
will  be  no  mother’s  care  for  him — no  sister’s  loving 
and  gentle  ministrations.  And  thus  he  will  grow  up 
and  become  a  man.  Ah  !  howT  my  heart  trembles  as 
I  think  of  the  dangers  that  will  surround  him  as  he 
enters  the  world,  free  from  the  restraints  of  guard ian- 


114 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


ship,  and  unprotected  by  the  sphere  of  home.  It  is 
for  him,  Mary — your  brother — that  I  now  address 
you ;  and  my  purpose  is  to  awaken  in  your  mind  for 
him  something  of  the  anxious  interest  that  I  feel. 
Where  is  he  now,  Mary?  (I  speak  as  though  years 
have  elapsed.)  What  is  he?  Do  you  know?  When 
did  you  see  him  last?  I  put  these  questions  with 
trembling  anxiety.  Has  he  wandered  from  the  right 
path  in  search  of  forbidden  pleasures?  and  is  he  tast¬ 
ing  already  the  bitter  fruit  that  hangs  from  every  tree 
that  grows  along  the  way  of  transgression  ?  If  so, 
yours  is  the  holy  mission  to  bring  him  back.  From 
the  world  of  spirits  let  my  voice  come  to  your  ears 
with  this  injunction. 

“  If  the  fears  I  now  express  be  groundless — if  my 
dear  boy  have  passed  thus  far  through  the  fiery  ordeal 
untouched  by  the  flame,  draw  close  to  his  side.  In  a 
sister’s  pure,  unselfish,  devoted  love  lies  a  brother’s 
safety. 

“  May  the  God  of  all  mercies  bless  you  and  keep 
you  free  from  evil,  my  child. — This  is  the  tearful 
prayer  of—  Your  Mother. 

For  a  while  after  reading  this  letter,  Mary’s  feel¬ 
ings  were  overwhelmed.  It  was  more  than  a  year 
since  she  had  seen  Alfred,  or  even  heard  from  him. 
But  few  letters  had  ever  passed  between  them.  For 
some  months  previous  to  the  time  when  her  mother’s 
letter  was  placed  in  her  hands,  Mary  had  thought  a 
good  deal  about  Alfred,  and  a  purpose  to  write  to  him 
came  more  than  once  into  her  mind.  Now  she  no 
longer  hesitated. 


f 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  115 

Two  years  have  passed  since  Alfred  Lovell  became 
a  man,  bis  prospects  for  life  marred  in  consequence 
of  bis  early  indulgence  in  the  vice  of  drinking.  As 
we  have  seen,  be  determined  to  invest  bis  ten  thou¬ 
sand  dollars  in  business,  and  begin  the  world  for  him¬ 
self;  and  this  determination  was  acted  upon.  Had  he  * 
reformed  his  habits,  abandoned  his  pleasure-loving, 
pleasure-seeking  associates,  and  put  himself  earnestly 
down  to  business,  success,  under  the  circumstances, 
would  still  have  been  doubtful ;  but  as  he  gave  him¬ 
self  a  greater  license  than  before,  his  ruin  was  inevi- 
table.  Two  years  were  sufficient  to  involve  him  be¬ 
yond  the  hope  of  extrication.  As  difficulties  closed 
around  him,  Alfred  Lovell,  in  whom  the  appetite  for 
drink  had  been  steadily  increasing,  indulged  himself 
more  and  more  freely.  Nightly  he  drowned  the 
anxiety  and  care  of  the  day  in  the  cup  whose  dregs 
are  bitterness  itself. 

One  morning,  when  his  affairs  were  at  their  worst, 
after  taking  his  usual  strong  glass  of  brandy,  to 
steady  his  nerves,  and  drive  away,  as  he  sometimes 
said,  the  “  blue  devils,”  he  went  to  his  store,  to  com¬ 
mence  the  business  of  the  day.  It  was  to  be  a  hard 
day ;  for  several  thousand  dollars  in  notes  fell  due, 
and  there  was  no  balance  to  his  credit  in  bank. 
Where  the  means  to  lift  these  notes  were  to  come 
from,  was  more  than  Lovell  could  tell.  He  had  bor¬ 
rowed,  in  all  quarters,  from  business  friends,  so 
heavily,  that  little  more  could  be  expected  from  this 
source.  There  had  come,  in  fact,  a  crisis  in  his 
affairs;  and,  unless  relief  presented  itself  in  some 

9 


116 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


unexpected  quarter,  his  failure  that  day  was  inevi¬ 
table. 

Lovell  had  been  in  his  place  of  business  about  half 
an  hour,  when  a  clerk  came  in  from  the  postoffice, 
and  handed  him  a  couple  of  letters.  One  of  these 
contained  a  draft  for  a  few  hundred  dollars  from  a 
customer;  the  other  was  from  his  sister  Mary.  He 
started,  as  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  signature  of  the 
last  letter.  Its  contents  affected  him  visibly.  They 
were™ 


‘‘My  dear  Brother: — It  is  long  since  I  have 
either  seen  you  or  heard  from  you.  Born  of  the 
same  mother,  whose  love  even  the  grave  has  not  ex¬ 
tinguished,  is  it  right  for  us  to  be  to  each  other  so 
like  strangers?  Of  late,  I  have  thought  of  you 
much;  and  now,  my  thoughts  and  feelings  are  all 
suddenly  awakened  to  a  new  and  earnest  interest 
in  your  welfare.  Do  you  ever  think  of  me,  Alfred  ? 
Do  you  remember  the  time  when  we  stood  by  the 
grave  of  our  parents — you  a  boy  of  fourteen,  and  I  a 
mere  child  ?  How  often,  of  late,  has  that  scene  come 
up  from  my  memory !  I  had  scarcely  felt  our  be¬ 
reavement  ;  but  the  tears  that  were  then  upon  your 
face  attested  the  keenness  of  your  suffering.  The  loss 
to  you  was  a  sadder  one  than  to  me,  Alfred — far 
sadder.  I  scarcely  felt  the  change;  but  you  lost 
every  thing  when  we  lost  our  mother.” 

So  vividly  did  this  recall  to  Alfred  Lovell  the  past, 
that  his  eyes  became  blinded  with  tears,  and  he  had 
to  wipe  them  away  before  he  could  finish  the  letter 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


117 


Folding  the  paper,  after  reading  the  last  line,  he 
bent  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  and  sat  musing  for 
some  time.  A  man,  when  surrounded  with  diffi¬ 
culties,  and  ready  to  be  overcome  by  them,  is  veiy 
apt,  in  looking  at  any  thing  presented  to  him,  to 
inquire  how  far  it  is  likely  to  afford  relief  in  his 
pressing  emergency.  In  thinking  of  his  sister, 
Lovell’s  mind  instantly  reverted  to  the  ten  thousand 
dollars  she  was  to  receive  as  her  portion  on  reach 
ing  the  age  of  eighteen  years.  Then  followed  the 
desire  to  have,  at  least,  the  use  of  it,  for  a  time,  in 
business. 

“  Ten  thousand  dollars  would  carry  me  through 
all  my  difficulties,”  said  he.  “I  would  pay  her  a 
higher  interest  for  its  use  than  she  could  obtain  any 
where  else.” 

He  checked  himself,  for  there  came  into  his  mind 
the  thought,  that  he  was  meeting  his  sister’s  affection¬ 
ate  advances  in  a  spirit  of  selfish  calculation.  In  a 
little  while,  however,  his  mind  took  up  the  train  of 
reflections  which  had  been  broken.  The  pressure 
upon  him  was  great,  and  he  could  not  turn  himself 
away  from  the  suddenly  presented  hope  of  relief. 

“  But  all  this  will  not  pay  my  notes,”  said  he,  arous¬ 
ing  himself  from  a  train  of  reflections  in  which  he 
was  framing  in  his  mind  a  suitable  answer  to  return 
to  Mary — one  that  would  tend  to  serve  the  selfish  pur¬ 
pose  which  had  arisen  in  his  mind  spontaneously. 
“  I  must  get  money  some  where.  With  this  hope  of 
aid  in  the  future,  it  will  not  do  to  give  up  now.” 

For  three  hours,  Lovell  tried  faithfully  to  borrow  a 


118 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


sum  sufficient  to  meet  his  payments  for  that  day ;  but 
he  tried  in.  vain.  Two  thousand  dollars  were  yet  to 
make  up  when  he  returned  to  his  store  at  one  o’clock, 
after  having  exhausted  every  means  of  raising  money. 
A  mode  of  raising  the  sum  required  to  meet  his  pay¬ 
ments  for  the  day  had  been  suggested  to  his  mind, 
and  it  was  to  think  over  the  matter  that  he  now  re¬ 
turned.  When  the  suggestion  first  came,  it  wras  in¬ 
stantly  rejected.  It  was  presented  again,  and  this 
time  he  looked  at  it  for  a  moment.  Finally,  as  every 
expedient  failed,  he  began  to  ponder  it  more  seriously. 
After  returning  to  his  store,  Lovell  sat  down  to  think 
as  earnestly  and  as  conclusively  as  possible. 

“This,  or  ruin!”  he  at  length  exclaimed,  starting 
up  and  moving  hurriedly  about  for  a  short  time. 
“  Mary  will  let  me  have  the  use  of  her  money,  I 
know,  and  all  can  be  made  right.  No  one  wall  be 
injured ;  no  one  need  ever  know  that  such  a  trans¬ 
action  was  made.” 

In  an  evil  hour  the  tempter  prevailed.  Alfred  Lo 
veil  made  two  fictitious  notes,  of  tw’o  thousand  dollars 
each,  in  his  own  favour,  and  endorsed  thereon  the 
name  of  a  wealthy  New  York  house,  the  signature 
of  wdiich  he  had  in  his  possession.  On  these  notes 
he  readily  obtained  the  cash  from  a  broker  with  whom 
he  was  well  acquainted. 

This  done,  he  lost  no  time  in  replying  to  Mary’s 
letter. 

“My  dear  sister,”  he  wrote,  “ your  affectionate  let¬ 
ter  reached  me  to-day,  and  deeply  touched  my  feel¬ 
ings  ;  the  more  so,  perhaps,  because  it  found  me  trou- 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  119 

\ 

bled  and  depressed  in  spirits.  Ah,  Mary !  yon  say 
truly,  that  I  lost  every  thing  in  losing  my  mother. 
Thrust  out  among  strangers,  where  were  none  to  sym¬ 
pathize  with  me,  to  take  me  kindly  by  the  hand,  or  to 
breathe  a  word  of  tender  regard  in  my  ear,  I  suffered 
more  than  I  will  attempt  to  describe :  and,  worst  of  all, 
was  exposed  to  evils  in  many  dangerous  and  alluring 
forms.  I  feel — principally  feel — that  I  am  not  to-day 
what  I  would  have  been  had  my  mother  lived — not 
what  I  would  have  been,  Mary,  if  the  love  and  care 
of  a  gentle  sister  had  been  mine.  It  was  unjust,  to 
me  at  least,  that  early  and  perfect  separation.  For 
your  tender  letter,  my  heart  thanks  you.  Let  us  be, 
in  the  future,  as  we  should  have  been  in  the  past — 
brother  and  sister  in  truth,  and  not  in  name  only.” 

To  this  came  quickly  a  reply  from  Mary,  breathing 
even  a  warmer  spirit  of  sisterly  affection  than  did  her 
first  letter. 

“  Can  you  not  make  me  a  short  visit,  Alfred,”  said 
she.  “  It  is  long  since  we  met,  I  would  so  like  to 
look  upon  your  face  once  more.” 

Alfred  answered  this  by  promising,  as  soon  as  his 
business  would  permit  him  to  leave  New  York  for  a 
few  days,  to  make  her  a  short  visit.  The  ease  with 
which  Lovell  obtained  cash  on  forged  paper,  led  him 
to  repeat  the  same  dishonest  and  dangerous  mode  of 
financiering,  until  he  was  comparatively  easy  in  mo¬ 
ney  matters.  It  was  far  from  his  purpose  to  wrong 
any  one  in  these  transactions.  He  meant  to  provide 
for  the  fictitious  paper  when  it  came  due.  All  he 


1-20 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


wanted  was  time  to  get  Mary’s  ten  thousand  dollars 
into  his  hands. 

A  few  weeks  after  Mary  received  her  first  letter 
from  Alfred,  he  wrote  to  her  he  was  about  making 
her  a  visit,  and  mentioned  the  time  when  she  might 
expect  him.  On  the  day  that  he  was  to  come,  Mary’s 
heart  beat  tumultuously  from  the  time  the  morning 
broke  until  the  hour  when  the  stage  arrived  that 
brought  her  brother.  She  was  standing  at  the  gar¬ 
den  gate,  looking  for  his  appearance,  when  the  stage 
drove  up. 

“  My  dear  sister!”  he  exclaimed,  as  he  threw  his 
arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed  her.  “  How  glad  I 
am  to  meet  you  once  more.” 

There  was  something  disordered  in  the  look  and 
manner  of  Alfred  that  seemed  strange  to  his  sister — 
something  that  caused  her  to  shrink  from  him.  A  few 
minutes  only  elapsed  before  she  comprehended  its 
meaning.  He  was  more  than  half  intoxicated  !  Oh, 
what  a  thrill  of  pain  went  through  her  heart  as  this 
truth  flashed  upon  her !” 

The  sudden  change  in  her  manner  was  perceived 
by  Alfred,  who,  like  most  persons  in  his  particular 
situation,  tried  to  conceal  his  lapse  from  sobriety  by 
affecting  a  nonchalant  air,  thus  exposing  himself 
more  fully  to  all  eyes. 

“  Alfred,”  said  Mr.  Edwards,  the  uncle,  soon  after 
the  young  man’s  appearance,  “  you  are  fatigued  with 
riding ;  will  you  not  go  up  stairs,  and  lie  down  for  an 
hour  or  two  ?” 

“Fatigued  !  Bless  your  heart,  uncle,”  replied  the 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


121 


young  man,  “that  is  something  to  which  I  am  a 
stranger.  Oh  no !  a  trip  across  the  Rocky  mountains 
wouldn’t  fatigue  me,  much  less  a  few  hours  ride  like 
this.  But  how  well  you  look,  aunt!”  addressing 
Mrs.  Edwards.  “  I  don’t  see  that  you  have  grown  a 
day  older  since  I  was  a  boy.” 

The  aunt  replied  gravely.  But  this  only  caused 
Alfred  to  be  gayer  and  more  talkative  than  before. 
Poor  Mary  !  How  her  heart  did  ache  !  Was  it  thus 
she  met  her  brother  ?  Alas !  were  not  her  mother’s 
fears  painfully  realized  ! 

For  several  hours  the  family  were  compelled  to 
bear  with  the  young  man’s  rude  familiarity,  the  effect 
of  partial  intoxication ;  then,  as  the  brandy,  of  which 
he  had  taken  freely,  began  to  die  in  him,  he  grew 
dull  and  silent.  Soon  after  tea  he  was  induced  to 
retire,  when  Mary  sought  her  own  chamber  to  spend 
the  night  in  weeping. 

When  the  brother  and  sister  met  at  the  breakfast- 
table,  on  the  next  morning,  both  looked  as  if  they  had 
passed  sleepless  nights.  This  was  really  the  case 
only  with  Mary.  Alfred  had  slept  soundly  enough; 
but  his  nerves,  long  accustomed  to  artificial  stimu¬ 
lants,  were,  as  was  usual  in  the  mornings,  com¬ 
pletely  unstrung.  All  the  lines  of  his  face  were 
drawn  down,  and  the  muscles  unsteady.  In  lifting 
his  cup  of  coffee,  his  hand  trembled  so  that  he  spilled 
a  portion  of  the  contents  on  the  table  ;  and,  when  he 
got  it  to  his  lips,  he  swallowed  eagerly,  like  one  con¬ 
suming  with  thirst. 


122 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


“  I’m  so  nervous,”  he  said  apologetically.  “ 1  don’t 
know  what  is  coming  over  me.” 

“You  are  a  very  young  man,  Alfred,”  said  Mr. 
Edwards,  seriously,  “to  have  so  unsteady  a  hand. 
Mine  scarcely  shows  a  tremor;”  and  he  held  his 
hand  up  steadily. 

“In  the  city,”  replied  Alfred,  “none  have  the  ro¬ 
bust  health  you  denizens  of  the  country  enjoy.” 

“I’m  afraid  your  city  habits,  more  than  your  city 
atmosphere,  affect  your  nerves,”  said  the  uncle. 

“  There  may  be  something  in  that,”  was  coolly  re¬ 
plied.  “  We  keep  later  hours,  and  coniine  ourselves 
too  much  within  doors.  We  have,  besides,  more  ex¬ 
citement,  and  that  exhausts  the  nervous  energy.” 

By  the  time  Alfred  had  taken  a  hot  cup  of  coffee, 
his  nerves  became  a  little  steadier,  and  the  peculiar 
haggard,  exhausted  expression,  which  all  had  noticed, 
began  to  give  way  to  a  lively  play  of  the  features. 
Soon  after  breakfast,  he  made  an  excuse  to  go  down 
to  the  village,  half  a  mile  distant  from  the  dwelling 
of  Mr.  Edwards.  When  he  returned,  he  was  in  a 
gayer  humour  than  when  he  went  away;  and  Mary 
perceived  that  he  had  been  drinking  freely. 

During  the  afternoon  he  went  over  to  the  village 
again.  He  did  not  come  back  until  some  time  after 
night  had  closed  in,  and  then  he  was  so  much  under 
the  influence  of  liquor  that  he  came  in  staggering, 
and  had  to  be  guided  by  Mr.  Edwards  up  to  his 
chamber,  where  he  fell  across  the  bed  with  all  his 
clothes  on,  and  in  this  condition  passed  a  greater  part 
of  the  night. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


123 


It  seemed  as  if  the  young  man  was  possessed — to 
make  the  very  worst  possible  exhibition  of  himself. 

The  shock  of  all  this  to  Mary  was  terrible.  When 
she  saw  her  brother  come  reeling  in  after  having  long 
waited  for  his  return  in  a  state  of  trembling  anxiety, 
the  effect  was  so  painful  that  she  grew  sick,  and,  in  a 
little  while,  fainted  away.  On  the  next  morning  she 

i 

did  not  come  down  to  breakfast;  and  on  going  to  her 
room  it  was  found  that  she  was  too  ill  to  rise. 

It  was  ten  o’clock  before  Alfred  joined  the  family. 
Mr.  Edwards  met  him,  as  he  came  down  from  his 
room,  with  a  grave  face. 

“  Good  morning,”  said  Alfred. 

“  Good  morning,”  returned  Mr.  Edwards,  coldly. 

“I’ve  rather  overslept  myself.”  said  Alfred. 

“I  don’t  much  wonder  at  that!”  remarked  his  un¬ 
cle,  in  a  voice  that  somewhat  amazed  the  young  man. 

“Why  do  you  say  that?”  he  inquired,  his  brows 
contracting  as  he  spoke. 

“  I  hardly  think  my  words  require  explanation !” 
said  Mr.  Edwards.  “But  to  speak  plainly,  I  regret 
exceedingly  your  present  visit,  seeing  that  it  has 
brought  only  pain  to  one  for  whom  you  profess  to 
cherish  affection.” 

“What  do  you  mean,  sir?”  exclaimed  Alfred  in  a 
stern  voice. 

“Last  night,”  replied  Mr.  Edwards,  “you  came 
home  so  much  intoxicated  that  it  was  with  difficulty 
we  could  get  you  up  to  your  bed.  The  shock  to  your 
sister  was  so  great,  that  she  is  seriously  ill  in  conse 
quence.” 


124 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


At  these  words  Alfred  sunk  into  a  chair,  nerveless, 
his  eyes  drooping  to  the  floor.  There  was  silence  for 
nearly  a  minute,  at  the  end  of  which  time  Mr.  Ed¬ 
wards  said — 

“  Alfred,  it  is  plain  that  you  have  gone  far  in  the  road 
to  destruction.  So  young,  and  yet  so  abandoned  to  a 
vice  that  ruins  every  thing !  How  could  you  come 
here  to  blast,  with  your  presence,  the  happiness  of  so 
guileless,  so  innocent,  so  loving  a  creature  as  your 
sister?  It  was  not  the  act  of  a  true  brother.” 

The  first  part  of  this  sentence  touched  the  young 
man’s  feelings;  the  last  stung  him  to  the  quick,  and 
awoke  his  anger.  Arising  with  some  dignity  of  man¬ 
ner,  he  replied  in  a  cold,  offended  tone  of  voice — 

“  I  will  blast  her  happiness  with  my  presence  no 
longer.  Good  morning,  sir !” 

And  he  went  hurriedly  from  the  house,  not  heed¬ 
ing  the  voice  of  Mr.  Edwards,  who  called  after  him. 

It  so  happened  that  the  voices  of  the  two  men  were 
louder  in  this  exciting  interview  than  either  of  them 
supposed,  and  ascended  to  the  room  of  Mary,  who 
heard  distinctly  nearly  all  that  passed  between  them. 
As  Alfred  left  the  house,  she  sprang  from  the  bed 
upon  which  she  was  lying,  and  throwing  open  the 
window,  called  after  him  in  a  voice  of  anguish.  Alfred 
heard  her,  but  he  merely  turned,  without  stopping, 
and  waved  an  adieu  with  his  hand.  Again  she  called, 
leaning  eagerly  from  the  window ;  but  he  heeded  not, 
nor  paused. 

Ill  with  fever  and  nervous  prostration,  this  sudden 
excitement,  followed  by  as  sudden  a  reaction,  sus- 


(126) 


JIAUT  PRAYING  FOR  HKH  BROTHER 


9 


9 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER.  127 

pended  again  the  vital  action  in  Mary’s  system.  Her 
uncle  was  still  standing  where  Alfred  had  left  him, 
when  he  was  startled  by  the  jar  of  some  heavy  body 
falling  above.  Ascending  the  stairs  at  a  bound,  and 
opening  the  door  of  Mary’s  room,  he  discovered  his 
niece  lying  senseless  upon  the  floor. 

The  effect  of  this  added  shock  was  of  the  most  se¬ 
rious  character.  Mary  was  dangerously  ill  for  a  week. 
Then  she  began  to  recover  slowly,  and  nearly  two 
weeks  more  elapsed  ere  she  was  well  enough  to  leave 
her  chamber.  As  she  gained  strength  enough  to  sit 
up,  her  mind  began  to  turn,  with  a  troubled  interest, 
to  Alfred  !  Alas !  how  sadly  had  the  fears  of  their 
mother  been  realized  ! 

One  day  (it  was  after  her  strength  had  sufficiently 
returned  to  sit  up  most  of  her  time)  Mary  took  from 
its  place  of  deposit  the  letter  of  her  mother,  and  read 
it  over  again,  weeping  at  every  sentence.  Then,  re¬ 
folding,  she  placed  it  in  her  bosom,  and  clasping  her 
hands  together,  looked  up  and  prayed  audibly — 

‘‘Heavenly  Father,  call  back  my  wandering  bro¬ 
ther  !  O,  save  him  from  the  direful  evil  into  which 
he  has  fallen  !  Give  strength  and  intelligence  of  pur¬ 
pose  to  enable  me  to  follow  and  win  him  from  the 
error  of  his  ways  !” 

In  that  moment  of  devotion,  when  the  earnest  love 
of  her  pure  heart  went  forth  unselfishly  towards  her 
brother,  she  resolved  to  save  the  erring  one  at  any 
sacrifice  she  dared  to  make. 

From  that  moment  Mary  recovered  rapidly.  A 


128 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


% 


month  afterwards — not  once  in  that  time  had  she  heard 
from  Alfred — she  said  to  her  aunt — 

“  I  have,  after  much  prayer  and  reflection,  made  up 
my  mind  to  do  a  thing  that  I  know  both  you  and  un¬ 
cle  will  disapprove.” 

“What  is  that?”  inquired  Mrs.  Edw*ards,  looking 
surprised  and  alarmed. 

“  I  am  going  to  New  York.” 

“What!” 

“  I  am  going  to  New  York  to  see  after  Alfred.” 

“Are  you  beside  yourself,  Mary?”  said  Mrs.  Ed¬ 
wards. 

“  No,  aunt.  My  mind  was  never  clearer  nor  calmer. 
You  have  never  seen  that!” 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  handed  Mrs.  Edwards  her 
mother’s  letter.  After  reading  this  over  twice,  the 
aunt,  who  was  a  good  deal  affected  by  it,  sat  silent 
for  the  space  of  many  minutes.  Some  thoughts 
passed  through  her  mind  that  were  far  from  being 
pleasant.  She  it  was  who  had  caused  so  rigid  a  sepa¬ 
ration,  even  from  the  first,  between  the  brother  and 
sister ;  and  this  letter  of  the  dying  mother  came  to 
her  with  a  strong  rebuke. 

“  Mary,”  said  she,  at  length,  in  a  voice  slightly 
disturbed,  “  you  must  not  think  of  doing  as  you  have 
just  said.” 

“  Aunt !”  returned  Mary,  speaking  strongly,  “  my 
mother  has  spoken  to  me  from  the  grave.  Can  I  dis¬ 
regard  her  solemn  injunction  ?  No !  If  my  own  heart 
did  not  prompt  me  to  what  I  am  about  doing,  this 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


129 


weight  of  responsibility  that  she  has  laid  upon  me, 
would  be  sufficient.” 

“  Mary,  Mary  !  this  cannot  be.  Some  other  means 
•  must  be  adopted.” 

“No  influence  as  strong  as  mine  can  be  brought  to 
bear  upon  him,”  quickly  replied  Mary.  “  On  me  the 
duty  of  reclaiming  him  devolves,  and  it  must  not  be 
delegated,  to  another.”  ‘ 

It  was  all  in  vain  that  Mrs.  Edwards  sought  to  in¬ 
fluence  the  mind  of  her  niece.  Her  resolution  to  do 
what  she  said  remained  unaltered. 

When  the  matter  came  before  the  uncle,  he  was 
greatly  excited  about  it,  and  said  that  he  would  per¬ 
mit  no  such  ridiculous  conduct  on  the  part  of  Mary. 
But  he  was  not  long  in  discovering  that  the  maiden, 
young  as  she  was,  had  formed  a  resolution  which 
was  not  in  the  least  to  be  shaken.  Neither  angry 
denunciation,  nor  kind  persuasion  had -the  smallest 
effect  upon  her.  Being  of  legal  age,  she  was  now 
free  from  all  constraining  influence.  Reluctantly,  at 
length,  the  aunt  and  uncle  were  forced  to  let  her  go; 
and  she  started,  alone,  on  her  mission  of  love.  We 
say  alone,  in  the  true  sense.  An  escort  was  obtained 
for  her,  and  she  was  consigned  to  the  care  of  some 
friends  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards  in  New  York  ;  but, 
so  far  as  her  mission  was  concerned,  she  was  alone. 

When  Alfred  Lovell  went  back,  humbled,  morti¬ 
fied,  and  disappointed  in  the  real  object  of  his  visit 
to  his  sister,  he  felt  like  a  criminal  with  the  hounds 
of  the  law  upon  his  track.  In  the  desperation  of  his 
feelings,  when  ruin  stared  him  in  the  face,  he  had  to 


130 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

.# 

escape  that  ruin,  madly  resorted  to  forgery — not  with 
the  intent  to  wrong  any  one,  but  as  a  temporary  ex¬ 
pedient  to  obtain  relief ;  and  now,  no  way  to  escape 
the  dreadful  consequences  of  that  act  presented  * 
itself. 

“  Accursed  brandy !”  he  muttered  between  his  teeth, 
as  he  sat  in  his  room,  with  a  bottle  of  the  fiery  poison 
before  him,  on  the  night  of  his  return  to  New  York. 
“Accursed  brandy!  Once  you  came  between  me  and 
a  fortune;  and  once  between  me  and  salvation  from 
ruin.  Accursed  thing !” 

Like  a  maniac  he  ground  his  teeth,  while  an  insane 
light  flashed  angrily  from  his  eyes. 

“I  shall  go  mad!”  he  at  length  said,  in  a  calmer 
voice,  “  mad !  mad  !”  And  he  poured  a  glass  full  of 
brandy  as  he  spoke.  “  In  my  bane  let  me  find  an 
antidote.” 

Eagerly  he  swallowed  this  large  draught  of  spirits. 
Then  covering  both  hands  over  his  face,  he  leaned 
back  in  the  large  chair  in  which  he  was  sitting,  and 
rocked  himself  with  a  quick,  nervous  motion.  After 
awhile,  this  motion  ceased,  and  his  heavy  apoplectic 
breathing  told  that  he  was  asleep. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  he  awoke.  The 
lamp  was  flickering  in  its  expiring  pulsations,  when 
he  started  up  from  a  terrible  dream  of  the  courthouse 
and  prison,  and  it  was  minutes  before  he  was  able  to 
comprehend  his  true  position.  Then,  with  a  heavy 
groan,  he  threw  himself  across  the  bed,  and  thus 
passed  the  hours  till  morning. 

Already  Lovell  had  forged  paper  to  the  amount  of 


131 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

six  thousand  dollars,  and  still  he  was  under  a  pressure. 
The  horrible  fear  that  now  came  over  him,  in  view  of 
the  failure  to  make  a  right  impression  on  his  sister’s 
mind,  prevented  a  further  progress  in  that  dungeon’s 
ward.  To  retrace  his  steps  was  now  the  most  earnest 
thought  in  his  mind.  But  how  was  he  to  get  back? 
He  might  struggle  on  and  keep  afloat  for  a  few  months 
longer,  but  when  the  forged  paper  came  due,  he  would 
have  no  means  of  protecting  it.  He  shuddered,  as  a 
thought  of  the  consequences  glanced  through  his 
mind. 

One  day,  a  few  weeks  after  Lovell’s  return  from 
his  visit  to  his  sister,  he  had  just  succeeded  in  raising 
sufficient  money  to  meet  his  payments,  and  was  begin- 
ing  to  turn  his  thoughts  on  the  ways  and  means  of 
getting  through  the  morrow,  when  a  sheriff's  officer 
presented  himself  and  arrested  him.  For  some  cause 
the  suspicions  of  the  holders  of  one  of  his  fictitious 
notes  were  aroused,  and,  on  taking  it  to  the  firm  whose 
endorsement  it  bore,  it  was  promptly  pronounced  a 
forgery. 

So  completely  prostrated  was  the  young  man  by 
this  event,  that  he  made  no  attempt  to  get  bail ;  but 
went  to  the  “  Tombs and  as  he  sat  in  despair  in  his 
cell,  hearkened  to  the  suggestions  of  the  tempter,  and 
meditated  self  destruction. 

He  had  been  for  an  hour  within  the  prison’s  gloomy - 
walls.  Thought  had  driven  him  almost  to  madness. 
Hurriedly  passed  in  review  before  him  his  brief  ca¬ 
reer,  and  he  saw  the  follies  of  his  life  in  all  their 

darker  shades.  “  I  have  dragged  ruin  down  upon 

10 


132 


m 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

my  own  head !”  he  murmured,  as  he  wrung  his  hands 
in  agony.  “Disgrace,  exposure!”  He  shuddered. 
“  I  cannot  meet  these!” 

There  was  a  small  knife  in  the  pocket  of  the 
wretched  man,  and  his  hand  was  upon  it.  He  was 
slowly  drawing  it  forth,  when  a  key  rattled  suddenly 
in  the  lock  of  the  door,  wThich,  in  a  moment  after, 
swung  open  and  a  woman  closely  veiled,  entered. 

“  My  brother !”  she  exclaimed,  drawing  aside  the 
veil,  and  showing  the  face  of  Mary.  “  My  brother !” 
and  she  sunk  down  beside  him  on  the  prison  couch 
where  he  sat,  and,  throwing  an  arm  around  his  neck, 
hid  her  face  on  his  breast,  and  wept  violently. 

“Oh  Alfred!  Alfred!”  she  sobbed  after  the  lapse 
of  a  short  time,  “why  are  you  here?” 

“And  why  are  you  here,  Mary?”  asked  the  young 
man,  in  as  firm  a  voice  as  he  could  assume — yet  its 
steadiness  did  not  conceal  the  agony  that  was  in  his 
heart. 

“  I  have  come  to  save  you,  Alfred ;  if  that  be  pos¬ 
sible,” 

“  It  is  too  late,  Mary,”  replied  Alfred ;  “  too  late 

“  Say  not  so,  my  brother.  It  is  never  too  late  while 
life  throbs  in  the  veins.” 

“  It  is  too  late,  Mary,  too  late  !”  repeated  the  young 
man  wildly. 

“  Be  calm,  my  brother,”  said  Mary,  herself  grow¬ 
ing  calm,  and  speaking  with  a,  kind  of  enthusiasm. 
“  Tell  me  why  you  are  here  ?” 

“Do  you  not  know?”  quickly  asked  the  brother. 

“  I  arrived  in  the  city  but  an  hour  ago,  and  learned, 


i 


(133) 


t 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


135 


on  inquiring  for  you,  that  you  were  here.  But  the 
cause  was  not  stated.” 

“  Seek  no  further  knowledge  on  this  subject,”  said 
Alfred.  “  Go  home  again,  and  forget  that  you  ever 
had  a  brother.” 

“Alfred,”  replied  Mary,  with  much  feeling,  “I 
came  here  to  be  to  you  a  true  sister ;  to  make  any  sa¬ 
crifice  in  my  power  to  secure  your  good.  Tell  me, 
then,  why  you  are  here,  that  I  may  procure  your  re¬ 
lease.  Confide  in  me.” 

“Go,  Mary,  go!”  said  the  young  man,  pushing 
her  away. 

“  I  will  not  leave  you,  Alfred,  except  to  procure 
your  release.” 

“I  am  a  criminal!”  exclaimed  the  brother,  with  a 
sudden  energy  of  expression. 

The  face  of  Mary  grew  instantly  pale,  and  a  shud¬ 
der  passed  over  her.  Seeing  the  effect  of  his  words, 
Lovell  said — 

“  But  not  in  heart,  Mary.  I  did  not  mean  to  wrong 
any  one.” 

“  He  then,  in  a  calm  voice,  related  to  his  sister  all 
the  particulars  of  his  case,  concealing  nothing  in  ex¬ 
tenuation,  except  his  purpose  to  get  the  use  of  her 
portion.  When  he  had  done,  Mary  arose  from  the 
bed  upon  which  she  had  been  sitting. 

“  I  will  see  you  again  in  a  short  time,”  said  she, 
moving  towards  the  door,  on  the  outside  of  which 
stood  the  turnkey. 

“  What  are  you  going  to  do?”  asked  Alfred. 

“  Procure  your  release,”  replied  Mary. 


136 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


“  Mary — ”  but  she  was  gone. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  an  old  gentleman, 

senior  member  of  a  large  importing  house  in  Pearl 

street,  sat  reading  a  newspaper,  when  the  door  of 

his  counting-room,  in  which  he  was,  alone,  opened, 

and  a  young  lady  stepped  in.  As  she  drew  aside  her 

* 

veil,  he  saw  that  her  face,  which  was  pale,  and  had  a 
look  of  distress,  was  one  of  singular  beauty.  Not  a 
brilliant  beauty,  but  one  in  which  sweetness  and  in¬ 
nocence  were  leading  features. 

“  Mr.  R - ?”  said  she,  in  a  low,  unsteady  voice. 

“  My  name,”  replied  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  arose 
and  ofFered  her  a  chair. 

She  sat  down,  but  was  so  overcome  by  her  feelings, 
that  it  was  some  time  before  she  could  utter  any  thing 
further.  At  length  she  said — 

“  My  brother  is  in  prison  at  your  instance.” 

“  Your  brother  !  Who  is  he  ?” 

“  A  young  man  wTho,  in  great  extremity,  madly 
resorted  to  the  forgery  of  your  name,  in  order  to  ob¬ 
tain  money.” 

“Lovell?” 

“Yes,  Alfred  Lovell.  But  he  did  not  mean  to 
wrong  you  in  the  end,”  said  Mary  in  a  pleading  voice. 
“  It  was  only  an  expedient.” 

The  merchant  shook  his  head  and  looked  serious. 

“  I  have  just  seen  him  in  prison,  and  this  to  me  is 
his  solemn  asseveration.  I  believe  it.” 

There  was  an  air  about  the  young  lady  that  in¬ 
spired  Mr.  R - with  a  feeling  of  both  interest  and 

respect. 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


137 


“  Your  brother,”  he  replied,  “is  now  in  the  hands 
of  the  law.  He  is  beyond  my  control.” 

“  I  am  just  of  legal  age,”  said  Mary,  after  a  pause 
of  some  moments,  “and  am  to  receive  ten  thousand 
dollars  in  my  own  right.  This  I  will  devote  to  the 
safety  of  my  brother.  As  orphan  children  we  were 
separated,  and  now,  after  many  years,  my  heart  turns 
to  him  again,  and  I  am  ready  to  sacrifice  every  thing 
for  him.  Have  you  a  son  and  daughter,  sir?” 

The  tone  and  look  with  which  this  last  sentence 
was  spoken,  touched  the  merchant’s  feelings,  and 
softened  his  heart.  Before  Mary  came  in,  he  had  felt 
exceedingly  angry  towards  Lovell,  and  was  resolved 
to  let  the  law  have  full  course,  if  it  condemned  the 
unhappy  young  man  to  an  expiation  of  his  criminal 
error  within  the  walls  of  a  state  prison. 

“What  can  I  do  in  the  matter?”  he  asked,  in  a 
voice  that  was  changed  and  much  subdued. 

“  If  I  meet  all  the  loss  that  has  been  sustained,  so 
that  harm  comes  tcfc  no  one,  will  it  not  be  in  your 
power  to  save  my  brother  from  the  legal  penalties  of 
his  error?” 

The  merchant  cast  his  eyes  to  the  floor,  and  re¬ 
mained  for  some  time  thoughtful. 

“  I  do  not  know  you,”  said  he,  at  length,  looking 
up. 

Mary  understood  his  meaning  fully.  A  warm  tinge 
came  to  her  cheeks,  as  she  replied — 

“True;  but  if  I  can  bring  you  evidence  to  show 
that  what  I  say  about  having  ten  thousand  dollars  is 


i 


138 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 

true,  will  you  procure  my  brother’s  immediate  re¬ 
lease  from  prison  ?” 

“Your  friends  may  not  permit  you  to  use  this 
money  in  the  way  you  propose.” 

“  It  was  my  mother’s  before  she  died,”  answered 
Mary,  with  a  good  deal  of  feeling,  and  I  will  use  it 
as  she  would  do  were  she  now  living.  No  friends 
can  control  its  disposition.  Do  you  know  Mr.  Ed¬ 
ward  P - ?” 

“  Very  well.” 

“  Come  with  me  to  his  house.” 

“  Are  you  in  his  family  ?”  • 

“  Yes,  while  I  remain  in  the  city. 

“  You  do  not  live  in  New  York?” 

“  No  sir.” 

The  merchant  was  more  and  more  favourably  im¬ 
pressed  with  Mary  every  moment ;  and  to  this  favour¬ 
able  impression  was  rapidly  succeeding  a  feeling  of 
lively  interest.  After  another  long  pause  for  re¬ 
flection,  he  said —  • 

“  And  you  will  secure  all  parties  from  loss  in  con¬ 
sequence  of  your  brother’s  unfortunate  errors.” 

“  I  will — and  you  may  trust  my  word.” 

But  you  do  not  know  to  what  extent  he  has  com¬ 
mitted  forgeries.” 

“He  has  assured  me,  solemnly,  that  the  whole 
amount  of  money  obtained  by  him  in  this  way  was 
but  six  thousand  dollars.” 

There  was  another  long  pause,  and  then  the  mer¬ 
chant  said,  as  he  arose — 

^  4 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


139 


"  Remain  here  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I  will 
see  what  can  be  done.” 

How  anxiously  did  the  sister  wait  for  Mr.  R - ’s 

return  !  It  was  over  half  an  hour  before  he  came 
back. 

“  Take  that  to  the  keeper  of  the  prison,”  said  he,  as 
he  came  in,  extending,  as  he  spoke,  a  paper,  “  and  he 
will  set  your  brother  free.” 

“  May  the  Lord  bless  you,  and  reward  you  a  thou¬ 
sand  fold,”  replied  Mary,  lifting  her  tearful  eyes  up¬ 
wards,  as  she  seized  the  papers.  Then  turning  quickly 
away,  she  said,  in  a  hurried  voice,  as  she  was  leaving 
the  room, 

“  I  will  see  you  again,  sir.” 

For  nearly  an  hour  after  Mary  left  his  cell,  the  un- 
happy  young  man  paced  the  narrow  apartment  in 
which  he  was  confined,  his  feelings  alternating  be¬ 
tween  hope  and  fear,  shame,  despair,  and  bitter  self- 
condemnation.  In  that  short  space  of  time  was  re¬ 
corded  the  rebuking  memories  of  years. 

“  Oh !  how  madly  have  I  pulled  down  ruin  upon 
my  own  head  !”  he  exclaimed,  throwing  his  arms  into 
the  air,  soon  after  Mary  had  gone  on  her  errand  of 
mercy.  “  For  the  mere  pleasure  of  sense,  I  have  sa¬ 
crificed  my  best  interests  on  earth,  and  almost  my 
hopes  of  heaven.” 

Exhausted  by  the  violence  of  his  emotion,  Lovell 
at  length  dropped  upon  his  bed,  and  burying  up  his 
face,  lay  suffering  most  intensely  for  a  time  longer. 
As  he  lay  thus,  the  door  of  his  cell  opened.  He  heard 
the  key  in  the  wards,  and  the  noise  of  the  door  as  it 


140 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


turned  upon  its  hinges ;  he  heard,  also,  light  feet  upon 
the  paved  floor,  approaching  him  quickly,  but  he  did 
not  look  up.  A  hand  was  placed  upon  his  arm.  It 
was  that  of  his  sister,  and  he  knew  the  touch.  Still, 
he  did  not  look  up. 

“ Alfred,”  said  a  low,  eager  voice,  “come!  You 
are  free !” 

i 

“  Free  !”  returned  the  young  man,  now  rising  up, 
but  slowly.  “Free,  did  you  say,  sister?” 

“  Yes,  Alfred,  free.  Come  !  let  us  hasten  from  this 
dreadful  place.” 

“  And  you  have  done  this,  Mary  ?” 

“  Yes,  Alfred,  I  have  done  it;  or  rather,  it  has  been 
done  through  my  intercession.  But  come,  brother, 
come  !  I  cannot  bear  to  have  you  remain  here  a  sin¬ 
gle  moment  longer.” 

“  God  bless  you,  Mary  !”  said  Alfred,  with  deep 
fervour — “  God  bless  you  !  I  do  not  deserve  such  a 
sister.  You  are  my  good  angel.  O,  that  you  had 
power  to  lead  me  from  the  labyrinth  of  evil  into  which 
my  feet  have  strayed.” 

The  young  man  still  remained  sitting  on  the  bed. 

“  Come  !”  repeated  Mary. 

“  I  had  better  remain  here,  than  go  out  and  be  as  I 
have  been,”  murmured  Alfred,  half  to  himself. 

“Will  you  dp  one  thing?”  asked  Mary;  “one 
thing  for  my  sake.  All  that  I  possess  have  I  pledged 
for  you.  Will—” 

“  Speak,  sister  !  If  it  is  my  life,  it  is  yours.” 

“  It  is  a  little  thing  in  itself,  but  great  in  its  con¬ 
sequences.” 


BROTHER  AND  SISTER. 


141 


“I  promise.’’ 

“  Will  you  abandon  the  cup  of  bewilderment?  Will 
you — ” 

“  Mary  !”  said  Alfred,  interrupting  her — he  spoke 
in  a  solemn  voice — “  I  promise,  before  Heaven,  to  do 
this.” 

“  Then  you  are  safe  !  Come  !”  responded  Mary,  in 
eager  tones. 

The  young  man  arose,  and  followed  his  sister  out. 
A  carriage  awaited  them,  in  which  they  drove  to  a 
hotel.  On  the  next  morning  they  left  the  city.  An 
assignment  of  the  business  was  then  made  in  New 
York  for  the  benefit  of  his  creditors.  All  the  forged 
paper  was  taken  up  by  Mary,  notwithstanding  the 
opposition  of  her  uncle — who  was  angry  beyond  mea¬ 
sure  at  her  conduct  in  the  affairs  of  her  brother — and 
being  destroyed,  left  no  evidence  against  him.  The 
remainder  of  her  property  she  placed  in  his  hands  as 
a  basis  for  new  business  efforts.  In  these,  guided  by 
former  experience,  he  was  more  successful  than  in 
his  former  trial. 

Five  or  six  years  have  elapsed,  and  Alfred  Lovell 
is  now  an  active  member  in  a  rapidly  growing  house 
in  Philadelphia,  the  senior  partner  of  which  is  the 
husband  of  his  sister.  Faithfully  has  he  kept  his  pro¬ 
mise  to  Mary,  made  in  the  gloomy  cell  of  a  prison. 
And,  verily,  for  her  self-sacrificing,  sisterly  devotion, 
she  has  had  her  reward. 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


By  Francis  C.  Woodworth. 


I  do  not  wonder  that  Fancy,  when  unchecked  by 
revelation,  has  so  often  represented  this  world  as  a 
vast  arena,  on  which  two  rival  bands  of  genii,  like 
the  gladiators  of  a  former  age,  are  constantly  contend¬ 
ing  for  the  mastery.  I  do  not  wonder  that  in  the 
mythic  poetry  of  that  age,  every  man  is  supposed  to 
have  attached  to  him  a  good  demon  and  an  evil  one — 
the  former  prompting  to  noble,  virtuous  deeds,  and  the 
latter  leading  the  soul  astray ;  for,  after  all,  there  never 
was  a  scion  of  superstition  engrafted  on  the  dismem¬ 
bered  trunk  of  truth,  that  had  not  its  origin  in  truth 
■ — some  truth  or  other.  It  must  be  so;  else  that  scion 
would  not  be  homogeneous  enough  to  grow  there, 
and  ripen  its  fruit.  Superstition  is  the  poetry,  the  ro¬ 
mance  of  the  invisible  world.  In  it,  if  we  will  seek 
for  them  there,  we  may  always  find  indexes  of  known 
or  probable  truths.  In  many  instances,  indeed,  it  is 
scarcely  necessary  to  do  more  than  render  this  poetry, 
this  mythos,  into  prose,  to  discover  the  truth.  No  one 
[  am  sure,  accustomed  to  habits  of  thought,  especially 
if  he  sets  himself  to  wmrk  to  trace  the  relation  between 

(142) 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


143 


causes  and  effects  in  the  moral  world,  whether  or  not 
he  receives  the  sentiment  of  Milton  as  something: 

O 

more  than  a  poet’s  imagery,  that 

“  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth, 

Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep — ” 

*  i 

No  such  one,  I  am  confident,  can  resist  the  conviction 
that  we  are  all  surrounded  by  two  opposite  and  con¬ 
flicting  classes  of  influences  and  motives — the  one 
leading  to  virtue  and  holiness,  the  other  to  vice  and 
crime.  One  of  the  most  fearful  problems  which  the 
lapse  of  years  has  eventually  solved  under  my  eye, 
has  been,  whether,  in  the  life  of  one  whom  I  loved, 
this  class  of  influences  and  motives  would  prevail,  or 
that.  And  it  is  often  not  a  problem,  which,  to  the 
human  perception,  is  solved  at  once.  Oh,  wdiat  strug¬ 
gles  have  I  seen  between  reason,  conscience,  religion, 
on  the  one  hand, — and  appetite,  passion,  and  the  syren 
of  vice,  on  the  other  ! 

Reader,  will  you  listen  to  a  little  sketch  from  my 
portfolio,  of  this  character  ?  It  is  a  sad  one — too  sad, 
perhaps  you  will  say.  But  it  carries  a  lesson  along 
with  it  which  is  worth  learning,  and  if  learned,  is 
worthy  of  being  engraved  with  the  point  of  a  diamond 
on  the  memory  of  every  one,  and  especially  of  every 
young  man.  It  is  a  sketch  of  a  tempted,  struggling, 
falling,  fallen  man. 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  184-,  that  I  last  visited  the 

graveyard  of  the  little  village  of  C - ,  some  miles 

inland  from  one  of  the  most  charming  cities  in  Con¬ 
necticut.  I  love  a  country  graveyard.  I  love  to  read 
the  inscriptions,  rude  and  uncouth  as  many  of  them 


y 


144 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


are,  upon  the  stones  which  mark  the  resting-place  of 
the  departed.  But  I  love  this  inclosure  more  than 
any  other.  It  is  the  graveyard  of  my  native  village. 
Here  rest  the  ashes  of  a  mother  whom  I  almost  wor¬ 
shipped;  and  here  too  is  the  form  of  a  cherished 
sister,  a  flower  cut  down  while  yet  fair  and  lovely, 
and  transferred  to  heaven.  Side  by  side  they  rest — 
all  that  is  earthly  of  the  mother  and  the  sister ;  and 
as  I  sit  near  the  mounds  above  them,  I  seem  to  hold 
a  closer  and  sweeter  communion  with  their  spirits. 

While  I  was  wandering  among  the  graves  in  this 
inclosure,  during  the  visit  to  which  I  have  alluded, 
my  attention  was  directed  to  one  evidently  made  but 
a  few  months.  The  earth  was  fresh  around  it,  and  it 
was  plain  that  the  chisel  of  the  untutored  sculptor 
had  just  traced  the  words  of  a  mourner’s  love  upon 
that  humble  headstone.  J  turned  to  read  them : 
“Charles  Randolph,  died  Feb.  22d,  184-,  aged  31 
years.”  It  was  the  name  of  one  whom  I  once  loved 
as  a  brother  !  Though  somewhat  my  senior  in  years, 
the  closest  intimacy  and  friendship  existed  between 
us  during  the  sunny  period  of  boyhood.  We  shared 
each  other’s  little  joys  and  sorrows.  We  sat  side  by 
side  in  the  village  school.  We  gamboled  in  the  woods 
and  meadows  together.  The  sports  of  one  were  never 
complete  without  the. presence  of  the  other.  And 
Charles  was  dead  !  His  sun  had  gone  down  while  it 
was  yet  day.  How  did  he  fall  ?  I  must  tell  you. 

I  had  not  heard  of  my  friend  for  several  years 
preceding  the  time  when  I  first  saw  his  tombstone. 

I  had  not  forgotten  him.  But  amid  the  cares  of  my 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


145 


profession,  I  gradually  ceased  to  correspond  with 

him,  and  I  at  length  lost  the  place  of  his  residence. 

The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  his  wedding.  Charles 

married  long  after  I  left  C - for  a  distant  home ; 

but  I  was  summoned  to  witness  his  happiness.  The 

object  of  his  choice  was  one  with  whom  we  had  both 

been  familiar  from  childhood.  She  was  a  charming 

girl.  Often,  at  school,  have  I  looked  slyly  at  her 

over  the  top  of  my  spelling-book,  from  my  seat  across 

the  room,  and  thought  there  was  no  face  so  beautiful, 

no  form  so  graceful  and  fairy -like,  as  Emma’s.  I  am 

but  an  indifferent  philosopher.  I  never  made  any 

pretensions  in  that  way.  But  since  a  riper  manhood 

has  overtaken  me,  I  have  often  stopped  a  moment  or 

two,  with  perchance  a  slight  fluttering  of  the  heart, 

as  my  memory  daguerreotyped  anew  the  scenes  of 

my  childhood,  to  inquire  what  was  the  meaning  of 

some  of  those  earlier  emotions.  I  have  analvzed  them 

%/ 

not  a  little,  and  endeavoured,  though  never  so  as  to 
satisfy  myself,  to  place  them  under  their  appropriate 
caption  in  psychology.  Verily,  love  has  some  curious 
and  unaccountable  phases,  or  there  were  ingenious 
and  well-executed  counterfeits  of  it  in  circulation 
among  some  of  us,  long  before  we  had  reached  the 
first  of  those  broad  stairs  in  our  progress  towards  ma¬ 
turity,  called  the  teens.  But  I  am  a  poor  philosopher, 
as  I  said  before. 

Charles  and  Emma  were  young  when  they  met  at 
the  altar — young  and  happy.  They  were  not  rich. 
Their  parents  did  not  entail  on  them  the  curse  of  a 
fortune.  They  gave  them  a  respectable  “setting 


146 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


out,*’  to  use  the  stereotype  expression  current  in  our 
neighbourhood — they  gave  them  that,  and  their  bless¬ 
ing — no  more.  With  that  patrimony,  Charles  and 
his  bride,  soon  after  their  union,  catching  the  en¬ 
thusiasm  of  the  enterprising  sons  and  daughters  of 
Connecticut,  left  their  pleasant  home  and  emigrated 
westward,  to  seek  their  fortune  in  the  wilderness  of 
northern  Pennsylvania.  At  this  point  I  lost  sight  of 
them — with  one  of  them  for  ever — with  the  other,  till 
I  saw  her  a  crushed  and  broken-hearted  widow — a 
Naomi,  returned  to  bury  her  husband,  and  to  die 
among  her  kindred.  The  important  incidents  in  their 
history  subsequent  to  the  period  of  their  emigration, 
I  learned  from  a  reliable  source  in  C - . 

Charles  was  an  industrious,  ambitious  man — a 
daring  fellow  he  was,  too.  If  there  were  any  dangers 
to  be  encountered  in  our  youthful  exploits,  Charlev 
Randolph  was  always  summoned  to  lead  the  way. 
He  carried  this  spirit — so  indispensable  to  a  farmer 
beginning  his  career  in  a  forest  where  the  axe  of  the 
woodman  had  never  been  heard — to  his  new'  home,  if 
home  that  spot  could  be  called  which  had  to  offer 
him  only  the  logs  for  his  cottage.  He  set  resolutely 
to  work  ;  the  tall  oaks  and  pines  fell  fast  around  him  : 
soon  he  had  a  house — a  log  house,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
was  comfortable  enough,  they  thought — and  Emma 
said,  laughingly,  that  they  would  at  least  have  a  prac¬ 
tical  illustration  of  that  very  romantic  scene,  “  love  in 
a  cottage.”  And  so  they  did,  without  so  much  as 
consulting  a  single  fashionable  French  novel  to  learn 
the  art. 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH 


147 


The  detailed  routine  of  an  emigrant’s  life — his 
struggles  with  the  giants  of  the  forest,  amid  the  thou¬ 
sand  privations  consequent  upon  a  life  so  far  removed 
from  the  delights  of  refined  society— would  be  tedious 
enough.  I  shall  be  excused,  if  I  pass  hastily  over 
these  matters.  It  will  suffice  to  say  that  on  the 
banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  near  one  of  those  many 
grand  and  glorious  gorges  between  two  contiguous 

O  O  O  C3  O 

hills  that  mark  that  noble  stream  in  its  tortuous  flow 
towards  the  vale  of  Wyoming,  there  soon  appeared  a 
farm,  abundantly  rewarding  the  labour  of  the  hus¬ 
bandman,  and  that  farm  was  Charles  Randolph’s 
More  than  four  years  had  passed.  Other  settlers  had 
arrived.  It  was  not  so  lonely  in  that  Pennsylvania 


Charles  Randolph’s  farm. 


I 


148 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


forest.  God  had  prospered  my  friend.  He  was 
happy — so  was  Emma.  Why  should  they  not  be 
happy  ?  Their  hearts  were  intwined  together  as 
closely  as  the  tendrils  of  the  ivy  on  the  old  oak  which 
they  had  left  near  their  cottage  door,  to  bless  them 
with  its  shade,  and  to  be  a  home  for  the  robin  and 
the  bluebird.  That  was  enough  to  make  them  happy. 
But  God  gave  them  another  blessing.  Oh  !  what  joy 
there  was  in  that  cottage,  as  little  Josephine  passed 
successively  through  the  stages  of  frolicking,  lisping, 
creeping,  walking,  and,  I  scarcely  know  what  besides. 
Then  heaven  sent  them  another  babe,  and  their  cup 
of  joy  was  full.  Did  Charles  forget  God,  then,  as  he 
pressed  his  boy  to  his  heart,  and  as  he  heard  the  idol 
of  his  affections,  his  own  Emma,  call  the  little  one 

Charley  ?  I  know  not. - 

“  Charles,  my  dear,  you  will  not  go  out  to  night, 
will  you?  It  rains  very  fast,  and  I  want  you  at 
home.  Did  you  know  you  had  one  of  the  most 
selfish  wives  in  the  world,  Charles?”  So  said  Mrs. 
Randolph,  perhaps  less  than  a  year  after  the  event 
just  related  ;  and,  as  she  said  it,  she  looked  more  sad 
than  usual,  for  she  had  observed  a  change  in  her  hus¬ 
band,  a  slight  change,  but  it  alarmed  her  a  little.  He 
did  not  love  home  less,  perhaps — perhaps! — but  he 
had  learned  to  find  pleasure  in  the  bar-room  of  a 
neighbouring  tavern,  which  some  Yankee  settler,  with 
an  enthusiastic  desire  to  promote  the  public  good,  had 
recently  erected.  The  loving,  trusting  wife  knew 
that  her  husband  went  there  simply  for  society ;  but 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


149 


she  had  a  lurking,  ^indefinable,  almost  prophetic  fear 
that  it  might  not  always  be  thus. 

In  a  moment,  Randolph  determined  he  would  stay 
at  home  that  night.  But  then  he  thought  of  an  en¬ 
gagement — might  not  that  engagement  have  been 
innocently  set  aside  ? — and  he  said,  tenderly,  “  I  think 
I  must  go,  dear;  but  I  will  not  stay  long.” — Charles 
Randolph  !  take  care  !  Thou  hast  already  placed  thy 
feet  on  one  of  the  steps  to  ruin  !  Take  care  !  Listen 
to  the  voice  of  thy  better  genius.  Hark !  it  whispers 
to  thee  now.  Nay,  heed  not  that  other  voice.  Let 
not  the  tempter  lure  thee  to  thy  ruin.  Stop !  thou 
hast  even  now  cause  to  tremble.  Hast  thou  not  al¬ 
ready  entered  the  wicket-gate  that  leads  from  the  path 
of  virtue  and  peace,  to  the  path  of  vice  and  sorrow? 
Take  care !  think  of  thy  wife,  Charles,  and  of  thy 
dear  little  babes.  Alas !  he  has  gone,  and  the  part¬ 
ner  of  his  bosom  is  kneeling  at  the  cradle  of  her  boy, 
and  pouring  out  her  heart  to  God  for  the  tempted 
man.  Tears,  bitter  tears,  roll  down  her  cheeks.  Can 
it  be  ? — but  no,  no — that  were  impossible  !  and  she  is  < 
calm  again.  Thus  it  is  with  the  sorrow-stricken  wo¬ 
man,  the  victim  of  a  grief  she  cannot  reveal,  and  of  a 
fear  she  cannot  acknowledge,  even  to  herself.  Love, 
pure  as  an  angel’s  and  stronger  than  the  grave ;  hope, 
lighting  up  the  darkest  night;  trust,  that  spurns  every 
suspicion,  as  the  voice  of  the  tempter ;  constancy,  like 
the  everlasting  hills; — these  nerve  her  arm,  and  im¬ 
part  to  her  a  heroism  a  thousand -fold  more  worthy  of 
the  world’s  applause  than  that  which  is  exhibited  on 
the  battle-field. 


150 


CHARLEY  RANDOLPH. 


Charles  Randolph,  the  devoted  husband  and  fond 
father,  loved  more  and  more  the  excitement  of  the 
bar-room.  Many,  many  times,  when  his  wife  tear¬ 
fully  remonstrated  with  him,  he  resolved  to  leave  that 
dangerous  path.  But  his  resolutions  were  broken.  In 
less  than  seven  years  from  the  day  of  his  marriage, 
lie  was  a  confirmed  inebriate.  Poverty  stared  that 
family  in  the  face.  His  grim  visage  entered  the  door 
of  their  cottage,  and  became  an  inmate  there. 

Another  year  passed — twro,  perhaps.  One  night, 
a  bleak,  cold,  stormy  night  in  February,  that  poor 
victim  of  intemperance  sought  his  accustomed  haunt, 
the  tavern.  Like  an  insect  that  plays  around  the 
flame  which  is  consuming  him,  fascinated  by  the 
blaze,  Randolph,  though  sensible  that  he  was  descend¬ 
ing  the  steps  to  ruin,  wTas  yet  urged  on  by  an  appe¬ 
tite  which  he  had  not  now  the  power  to  control.  That 
was  a  bitter  cold  night :  fiercely  howled  the  winds 
around  the  once  happy  home  of  Charles  and  Emma. 
The  snow  fell  profusely,  and  was  hurled  into  drifts  as 
it  reached  the  earth.  Long  and  anxiously  the  wife  and 
mother  looked  for  the  absent  one — but  he  came  not. 
He  left  the  inn  late,  with  the  bottle  in  his  hand.  Poor 
man  !  His  tale  is  soon  told  : 

“  Nor  wife,  nor  children,  more  shall  he  behold, 

Nor  friends,  nor  sacred  home.” 

He  was  found,  when  the  morning  dawned,  lying  in 
the  road  near  his  cottage,  stiff  and  cold,  with  his  dog 
caressing  him,  and  striving  to  rouse  him  from  the 
sleep  of  death ! 


DEATH  OP  CHABLES  BAKDOLPH. 


(151) 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


By  Mbs.  R.  S.  Harvxy. 


“  I  wouldn’t  marry  an  awkward  man,  or  one  who 
has  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders,  would  you,  Charlotte?” 
said  the  lively  Sarah  Cunningham,  as  a  small  party 
of  young  ladies  lingered  over  the  dessert  in  Mr.  Cun¬ 
ningham’s  dining-room.  “  I  don’t  think  it  likely  I 
shall  ever  marry,”  said  Charlotte  Ludlow,  demurely 
placing  a  nut  between  the  nut-crackers.  “  Oh  no,  of 
course  not,”  returned  the  first  speaker,  “like  all 

(153) 


154 


THE  FIRST  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


proper  young  ladies,  we  all  expect  to  be  grave  and 
sorrowful  old  maids ;  but  suppose  such  a  thing  were 
to  happen  ;  wouldn’t  you  like  your  husband  to  be 
tall  and  noble  looking,  so  that  you  could  look  up  to 
him.  admiringly?”  “  No,  I  don’t  think  I  care  much 
for  personal  appearance ;  but  I  should  like  him  to  be 
wise  as  Socrates,  and  eloquent  as  Cicero.”  “And 
what  would  you  like,  sister  Julia?”  said  the  youngest 
of  the  party,  addressing  one  whose  earnest  eye  be¬ 
tokened  a  mind  intelligent  and  reflecting  beyond  the 
others.  “I  should  have  no  objection  to  personal 
beauty  or  brilliant  talents,  certainly,”  replied  Julia 
Cunningham,  with  a  smile;  “but  oh,”  she  added,  in 
a  more  serious  tone,  “  I  could  not  love  one  that  I  did 
not  believe  beyond  the  dominion  of  any  vice.”  “  Vice  ? 
why  how  came  you  to  think  of  such  a  thing?”  asked 
Sarah  inquiringly.  “  Who’d  dream  of  marrying  a 
vicious  man  ?”  “  None  of  us,  I’m  sure,”  replied  her 

sister ;  “  but  the  thought  was  suggested  by  passing 
a  person  in  the  street  this  morning,  of  genteel  appear¬ 
ance,  and  so  dreadfully  intoxicated — I  crossed  the 
street  with  an  involuntary  shudder — but,  as  I  turned 
away,  I  sighed  to  think,  that  perhaps  some  wife  had 
once  loved  him,  some  sister  had  had  pride  in  him.” 
“  Once  loved  him  !”  repeated  Charlotte  ;•  “  why,  if  she 
once  loved  him,  she  must  love  him  yet;  you  know, 
the  old  song  says — 

“  ‘  When  once  her  gentle  bosom  knows 
Love’s  flame,  it  wanders  never; 

Deep  in  her  heart  the  passion  glows 
She  loves  and  loves  for  ever.’  ” 


THE  FIRST  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


155 


“  Songs  are  not  always  tlie  best  authority,  even  in 
love  matters,”  replied  Julia;  “for  my  part,  I  think  I 
could  love  through  every  test  of  feeling  but  that.  I 
could  endure  disappointment,  grief,  and  toil — but 
degradation — never!”  “Well,  if  that’s  so  shocking,” 
said  Sarah,  quickly,  “  I’d  better  just  tap  William 
Russell  on  the  shoulder  when  I  next  see  him  indulg¬ 
ing  in  a  glass  of  wine.  There’s  no  knowing  what 
might  come  of  it.”  A  laugh  all  round  followed  this 
sally,  and  Julia  replied,  smiling,  “Don’t  give  your¬ 
self  the  trouble,  sister  dear,  it  would  not  be  worth 
while  to  trust  one  with  aught  else,  that  could  not  be 
trusted  to  take  a  glass  of  wine.”  A  lively  bantering 
on  the  theme  of  William  Russell  now  commenced,  and 
Sarah  declared  that  he  was  to  be  the  happy  man  from 
four  inferences  wdiich  she  wTas  ready  to  demonstrate ; 
and  the  mirth  w^as  ringing  some  lively  peals  when 
Julia  interposed — “  Hush,  you  noisy  ones ;  papa  is 
taking  his  after-dinner  nap  in  the  next  room,  and  it  is 
the  only  indulgence,  you  know,  which  dear  papa  ever 
alknvs  himself.”  “  I  wish  papa  wrould  get  rich,”  said 
Sarah,  with  a  half  sigh,  “  then  he  needn’t  wear  him¬ 
self  out  so  in  this  everlasting  business  /”  “  I  don’t  see 
much  chance  of  that,”  returned  Julia,  “  while  busi¬ 
ness  is  so  dull,  and  there  are  so  many  birds  in  the 
nest  which  papa  has  to  keep  warm  and  comfortable.” 
“Then  suppose  some  of  us  take  a  fly,”  said  Sarah; 
“you  are  the  oldest,  why  don’t  you  begin?”  This 
renewed  the  easily-excited  laughter,  for  youth  waits 
not  for  real  wit  to  provoke  the  smile ;  and  Julia, 
shaking  her  Anger  admonishingly,  arose  to  summon 


156 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


the  servant  to  remove  the  things.  A  promenade  was 
now  arranged  by  the  rest  of  the  party,  who  ran  rapidly 
up  stairs  for  the  bonnets  and  the  mantles,  and  Julia, 
entering  the  room  where  her  father  was  sleeping, 
softly  arranged  the  window  curtain  that  the  light 
might  not  fall  upon  his  face.  She  then  gathered  up 
the  music  which  had  been  littered  about,  and  placed 
it  neatly  in  the  music-rack :  restored  the  room  to  its 
wonted  orderly  appearance,  and,  drawing  her  work- 
stand  to  the  window,  took  up  her  needlework  and 
commenced  sewing  steadily.  As  she  worked,  some 
sweet  thought  which  had  nestled  in  her  heart  ex¬ 
panded  itself  upon  her  expressive  face.  First  the 
dark  eye  lightened  with  a  brilliant  animation,  and  the 
lips  parted  in  a  happy  smile — but  then  came  an  ex¬ 
pression  of  softened  grief,  and  tears  sprang  to  her 
eyes. 

Julia  Cunningham  was  the  eldest  of  a  large  and 
lovely  family,  and  both  parents  had  ever  turned  to 
her  in  the  vicissitudes  of  their  earthly  career,  as  a 
solace,  and,  in  some  sense,  a  support.  Mrs  Cunning¬ 
ham,  a  woman  of  gentle  and  retiring  spirit,  feeble  in 
health,  and  worn  down  by  the  cares  of  a  numerous 
household,  had  gradually  assigned  to  Julia  a  place 
better  becoming  the  head  of  a  family,  and  had  de¬ 
lighted  to  find  refuge  in  her  energy  and  promptitude 
from  those  petty  and  harassing  cares  which  follow  in 
the  train  of  a  large  family  and  straitened  means ;  and 
Mr.  Cunningham,  suddenly  plunged  from  apparent 
affluence  into  a  long  and  weary  struggle  with  em¬ 
barrassed  circumstances,  had  found,  in  his  intelligent 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE.  157 

and  thoughtful  daughter,  one  always  ready  to  listen 
to  his  plans — to  sympathize  in  his  disappointments, 
and  to  inspire  the  heart  anew  with  the  sweet  encou¬ 
ragements  of  hope.  And  Julia’s  was  not  a  passive 
sympathy  with  either  parent.  Most  people  in  their 
station  of  life  thought  it  necessary  to  keep  two  or 
three  domestics,  but  Julia  arose  early  to  arrange  the 
breakfast-room,  and  see  that  all  was  comfortable  for 
her  father’s  early  meal;  and  then  she  was  always 
ready  for  the  nursery,  helping  mamma  with  the  little 
ones,  so  that  the  Cunninghams  were  always  neat  and 
orderly  with  but  one  servant.  Dearly,  too,  as  she 
loved  the  indulgence  of  her  own  refined  tastes,  which 
her  parents  had  spared  no  pains  to  cultivate  with 
their  then  ample  means,  she  was  always  ready  to  lay 
aside  the  book,  and  put  up  the  drawing  to  instruct 
a  little  brother  or  sister  who  was  too  young  to  go  to 
school ;  and  when  new  clothes  were  to  be  provided, 
and  seasonable  arrangements  made,  none  made  the 
purse  hold  out  so  well  as  Julia,  and  no  fingers  flew  so 
fast  as  hers  in  the  domestic  manufactory.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  the  parents  sighed,  as  well  as 
smiled,  at  beholding  not  a  few  of  the  other  sex  ready 
to  lay  the  heart  offering  on  the  shrine  of  their  fair 
daughter  !  What  wonder,  while  they  watched  with 
anxious  solicitude  the  choice  that  would  bind  up  her 
earthly  destinies,  they  talked  pensively  to  each  other 
of  the  blank  that  would  follow  in  their  household  ! 
“  I  cannot  see  any  reason  for  haste  in  the  matter,” 
said  Mr.  Cunningham  to  his  \vife,  as  they  stole  away 
from  the  parlour  to  indulge  in  an  hour  of  sober  chat 


<< 


158 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


in  their  own  apartment.  “  Hard  as  you  toil  and  strive 
for  them,  my  dear,  I  think  you  will  never  see  reason 
to  be  in  haste  to  part  with  any  of  your  daughters,” 
replied  Mrs.  Cunningham.  “  But  Julia  is  only  twenty, 
and  I  don’t  wish  any  of  them  to  marry  before  twenty- 
five;  that’s  young  enough,  in  my  opinion.”  “  Well, 
dear,  the  hurry  is  this  : — William.  Russell  is  going  to 
the  South  to  commence  a  new’  business,  and  he  is 
afraid  of  losing  the  treasure  he  covets.  Mr.  Graves 
proposed  last  evening,  and  was  refused,  and  William, 
with  a  lover’s  watchfulness,  suspects  the  truth,  and 
suspects,  moreover,  that  yet  another  is  ready,  and 
that’s  why,  he  told  me  this  morning,  he  so  urges  the 
matter.”  “  Well,  I  will  not  consent  to  his  taking  her 
awray,  while  he  is  uncertain  as  to  his  own  success, 
and  permanent  establishment.  Let  him  try  it  a  year, 
and  then  there  will  be  a  better  certainty  for  her.” 
“  No  doubt  there  would,”  replied  his  wife  ;  “I  think 
you  are  very  right;  but  you  prefer  William  Russell, 
do  you  not,  to  any  of  her  admirers?”  “  Yes,  I  cer¬ 
tainly  do.  William  has  struggled  with  the  wrorld, 
and  knowrs  wdiat  it  is ;  has  long  provided  for  a  mother 
and  sisters,  even  before  his  prodigal  father  was  taken 
away,  and  I  regard  his  character  as  so  fixed,  that  I 
would  sooner  trust  my  child  to  his  care  than  to  any 
other’s.  Yet  I  have  never  seen  a  man  I  think  worthy 
of  Julia !”  “  Nor  ever  would,”  said  his  wife,  smiling, 
“  should  you  live  a  hundred  years  !  and,  indeed,  I  do 
not  know  howr  we  shall  do  wuthout  her.  Sarah,  and 
Emma,  and  all  are  good  girls,  but  they  are  not  Julia.” 
Just  so  thought  William  Russell,  as  most  reluctantly 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


159 


he  subscribed  to  Mr.  Cunningham’s  condition,  and 
wended  his  way  without  the  companion  he  had  hoped 
w'ould  render  it  interesting.  But  the  year,  like  other 
years,  rolled  its  steady  round,  and  was  gathered  to  its 
progenitors  beyond  the  flood  ;  and  the  stated  time  had 
come,  and  a  few,  but  valued  friends,  assembled  at 
Mr.  Cunningham’s  mansion  to  celebrate  the  happy 
day.  Strange,  that  so  many  tears  should  fall  upon 
a  happy  day  !  strange,  that  so  many  serious  faces 
should  be  seen  in  that  cheerful  home  upon  a  happy 
day  !  The  parents  looked  grave,  and  even  sad — the 
bright,  gay  Sarah  drenched  her  blonde  with  tears  as 
the  ceremony  proceeded,  and  even  the  little  ones  felt 
that  there  was  something  in  the  scene  more  solemn 
than  they  could  penetrate,  as  the  vow  was  spoken,  to 
be  faithful,  loving  until  death.  Julia  had  struggled 
nobly  to  preserve  the  usual  composure  of  her  man¬ 
ner — had  kept  down  the  choking  heart,  while  her  mo¬ 
ther  and  sisters  sobbed  farewell ;  but  on  the  bosom  of 
her  father  she  wept  so  long  and  passionately,  that  the 
bridegroom  playfully  remonstrated,  and  with  gentle 
force  urged  her  to  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey 
them  away.  Strange  anomaly  of  human  nature  !  As 
the  rapid  movement  hid  the  gaze  of  loving  faces  from 
her  view,  she  felt  with  the  husband  for  whom  she  had 
chosen  to  leave  all  sitting  by  her  side,  almost  desolate 
The  parents  of  Julia  Cunningham  had  concurred 
in  her  choice,  because  they  believed  that  the  fine  per¬ 
son  and  engaging  manners  of  Russell  were  united  to 

o  o  o 

a  character  beyond  the  power  of  circumstances  to 
change ;  and  every  possible  support  had  been  given 


160  A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 

to  this  opinion,  in  all  the  years  that  he  had  mingled 
as  a  man  among  his  fellows.  The  fact  of  having  a 
mother  and  sisters  depending  on  his  exertions,  had 
poised  the  natural  buoyancy  of  his  temperament  with 
thoughtfulness  and  consideration  :  and  straitened  cir¬ 
cumstances  had  rendered  it  necessary  to  deny  himself 
the  indulgence  of  society.  Now,  his  position  was 
greatly  altered.  His  mother  had  been  removed  by 
death — his  sisters  well  provided  for  by  opulent  hus¬ 
bands — his  business  was  rapidly  increasing,  and  with 
no  wants  to  provide  for  but  his  young  wife’s  with  her 
domestic  habits,  William  felt  that  his  burden  was  a 
light  one.  The  society  into  which  they  were  thrown 
was  a  hospitable,  and  rather  convivial  one,  and  in  the 
admiration  his  beautiful  and  intelligent  Julia  excited, 
the  husband  experienced  a  new  source  of  delight, 
and  felt  little  inclined  to  limit  any  indulgence  from 
which  she  might  derive  gratification. 

And  thus  are  the  avenues  to  temptation  thrown 
open !  In  the  hours  of  ease  and  indulgence,  in  the 
garb  of  brightness  and  beauty,  the  bosom’s  foe  assails 
us,  and  well  for  those  who  waken  to  resistance,  before 
the  ruin  is  complete!  Strong  in  the  undoubting  con¬ 
fidence  of  youth,  Julia  feared  no  evil;  and  three 
years  had  flown  away  so  pleasantly,  she  scarcely  ■ 
knew  them  gone.  Each  year  she  had  passed  a  few 
weeks  under  the  paternal  roof,  and  the  rejoicing  pa¬ 
rents  united  in  the  belief,  that  their  daughter’s  wed- 
ded  life  was  all  that  could  be  desired.  A  change  wras, 
however,  approaching !  and  William  Russell  informed 
nis  wife,  that  the  tide  was  setting  against  him.  Busi 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE 


161 


ness  falling  off,  losses  here  and  there,  had  made  a 
serious  diminution  in  their  income,  and  he  thought 
they  would  try  to  live  more  economically.  u  Cer¬ 
tainly,”  said  Julia,  readily,  “  I  remember  well  how 
papa  retrenched  his  family  expenses,  and  it  all  came 
right  again ;  and  he  is  so  prosperous  now.”  “But  I 
am  sorry  you  should  go  over  again  for  me,”  said  the 
husband  in  a  dissatisfied  tone,  “  the  painful  lessons  of 
your  youth.”  “  They  were  not  painful,”  replied  Julia, 
cheerfully  ;  “  I  never  was  happier  in  all  my  life,  than 
when,  by  some  alteration  or  contrivance,  I  saved  papa 
a  new  expense.”  “I  am  no  admirer  of  small  savings,” 
said  William,  with  a  faint  smile.  “  Then  suppose 
we  save  a  large  sum,  right  out,”  returned  Julia  ani¬ 
matedly.  “If  we  decline  Judge  Hastings’s  party  to 
night,  and  attend  no  more  large  ones  this  fall,  we  shall 
not  need  to  give  our  own  annual  entertainment  in  the 
winter,  and  that  will  save  a  heap  of  money,  and  a 
world  of  trouble.”  “  Oh,  that  is  looking  too  far  ahead ; 
besides,  we  must  go  to-night,  for  I  am  anxious  to  see 
a  friend  whom  I  promised  to  meet  there ;  it  will  do  us 
good,  too,  Julia ;  I  want  cheering  up.”  Julia  thought 
she  had  never  seen  her  husband  less  cheerful,  than 
when  they  returned  from  the  brilliant  festivity.  He 
seemed  so  flushed,  so  feverish  and  weary,  and  she 
wished — she  scarcely  knew  why — that  he  would  at¬ 
tend  no  more  parties.  A  few  days  after  this,  a  letter 
was  received  by  Mr.  Russell,  imparting  the  melan¬ 
choly  intelligence  of  the  very  sudden  death  of  Mrs. 
Cunningham.  He  broke  the  news  to  Julia  as  ten¬ 
derly  as  possible,  and  her  father  wrote  almost  immedi- 


162 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


ately,  entreating  her  to  come  to  him,  for  some  time, 
m  this  hour  of  his  desolation.  “  And  how  long  will 
you  stay?’’  said  William,  as  Julia  completed  her 
mournful  preparation  for  the  journey.  “  I  ought  to 
remain,  dear  William,  at  least  three  months,”  she  re¬ 
plied.  “  They  will  need  me  now  so  much  !”  “  Three 
months  is  a  long  time,”  said  the  husband,  “  but  I  must 
try  to  do  without  you  !”  When  Julia  returned,  she 
found  things  getting  worse  rather  than  better,  with 
her  husband ;  and  notwithstanding  she  practised  every 
possible  self-denial  for  herself,  and  extended  it  to  their 
household  in  every  way  that  he  would  permit,  the 
cloud  gathered  strength  rather  than  dispersed.  There 
was  an  alteration  in  him,  too,  which  occasioned  her 
deep  anxiety.  So  uncertain  and  fitful  in  spirits,  so 
careless  in  management,  so  easily  irritated.  She 
could  not  understand  it,  and  she  sought  the  reason 
in  the  trials  of  his  business,  in  the  loss  of  quiet,  in  the 
failure  of  health,  in  every  cause  but  the  right  one. 
Some  days  passed  on,  and  a  card  of  invitation  was 
sent,  for  another  gay  party.  Julia  handed  it  to  her 
husband,  and  asked  if  he  would  write  an  apology. 
“  Why  not  go?”  he  said,  inquiringly.  “  My  black 
dress  is  a  sufficient  excuse,  if  I  needed  one,”  she  re¬ 
plied,  with  a  tear,  “but  I  do  not;  Mrs.  Everett  will 
not  expect  me .”  “Well,  I  will  look  in  a  little  while, 
perhaps,”  said  William,  “and  I  can  explain.” 

The  evening  came,  and,  saying  he  would  return 
early,  as  she  did  not  accompany  him,  W7illiam  Rus¬ 
sell  left  his  wife  to  a  solitary  evening.  While  she  sat 
plying  her  needle,  her  thoughts  wandered  to  her 


# 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE.  Ifi3 

youthful  home,  her  doating  father,  her  affectionate 
sisters ;  and  while  she  paid  a  new  tribute  of  grief  to  the 
memory  of  the  beloved  mother  so  lately  taken  from  her, 
she  felt  that  that  home,  even  now,  in  its  bereaved  hour, 
possessed  the  elements  of  a  quiet  comfort,  of  which 
her  own  was  destitute.  The  needle  became  a  dan¬ 
gerous  companion,  and  she  took  up  a  book ;  but  it 
failed  to  rivet  her  attention.  She  looked  at  her  watch : 
it  was  past  eleven,  and  she  became  uneasy  and  appre¬ 
hensive.  Twelve,  one,  and  two  followed  slowly,  and 
she  walked  the  floor  to  still  the  feverish  beating  of 
her  heart.  “  He  would  not  be  so  late  at  the  Everetts  : 
something  has  happened  :  what,  oh,  what  can  it  be !” 
A  t  length  came  three  o’clock,  and  with  it  came  the 
footstep  it  was  always  joy  to  hear.  But  it  was  not 
like  his,  it  was  so  heavy,  so  uncertain.  She  paused  a 
moment  in  dreadful  doubt,  and  then  sprang  to  meet 
him.  He  staggered  past  her,  and  flung  himself  into 
a  chair.  She  followed  him,  and  clasping  his  arm 
wildly,  almost  shrieked,  “  Tell  me,  William  Russell, 
tell  me,  husband,  what  is  the  matter  ?”  “  Leave  me, 

woman,”  he  cried,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  with  a  brow 
black  as  the  midnight  sky;  “isn’t  there  enough  the 
matter,  without  being  tormented  with  your  foolish 
questions?”  and  flinging  off  his  coat,  he  gained  the 
bed,  and  throwing  himself  down,  was  soon  in  a  stu- 
pified  slumber,  unconscious  that  the  tears  of  his  wrife 
were  pouring  on  his  face  like  rain.  Well  was  it  for 
Julia  Russell  that  she  had  obeyed  the  wise  man’s  in¬ 
junction,  to  “  Remember  her  Creator  in  the  days  of 

her  youth/’  else  where  could  her  crushed  and  broken 

12 


164 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE 


heart,  cast  off  by  its  dearest  earthly  refuge,  have 
made  its  appeal?  Well  was  it  for  her,  in  this  hour 
of  abandonment  by  him  she  had  so  loved  and  trusted, 
that  she  could  still  stay  herself  on  “  the  everlasting 
arm.”  In  prayers  and  tears  poor  Julia  passed  that 
night,  and  when  the  morning  dawned,  and  her 
wretched  husband  returned  to  consciousness,  the 
swollen  eye  and  the  pale  cheek  awoke  his  tenderness 
and  his  remorse.  In  deep  humility  he  acknowledged 
all  his  fatal  indulgences,  and  promised — ah  !  the  spi¬ 
der’s  thread  on  which  that  promise  hung — to  give  up 
all,  if  his  injured  wife  would  restore  him  her  confi¬ 
dence  and  love.  And  she !  did  she  turn  scornfully 
away,  with  the  assurance  that  she  could  not  link  her¬ 
self  to  degradation  ?  Ah,  no  !  for  the  degraded  was 
precious,  even  as  her  own  soul.  In  broken  tones,  she 
prayed  him  to  remember  his  weakness,  that  he  might 
gather  strength  to  resist  the  enticing  cup ;  begged 
him  to  settle  his  affairs,  that  they  might  no  longer 
urge  him  to  temptation  :  that  if  a  crust  alone  was  left, 
she  would  eat  it  cheerfully  with  him,  and  toil  with  all 
her  powers  for  their  support,  so  that  he  would  be  again 
her  blessed  William  Russell. 

Years  have  passed  since  then,  and  Mr.  Russell,  so 
influenced,  so  guarded,  never  became  a  confirmed  ine¬ 
briate  ;  yet  a  moral  strength  is  wanting  to  break  for 
ever  the  fatal  snare;  and  could  you  see  Julia  Cun¬ 
ningham  now,  my  fair  young  reader — her  finely 
rounded  form  so  thin  and  wasted;  her  brilliant  eyes 
shaded  with  unceasing  anxiety ;  her  step  tremulous 
with  sad  foreboding  when  absence  is  too  lengthened, 


A  SINGLE  GLASS  OF  WINE. 


165 


you  would  shrink  with  dread  when  you  behold  the 
beloved  of  your  hea$jt  lift  to  his  lips  a  single,  glass 
of  wine. 


The  foregoing  tale  illustrates  the  immense  import¬ 
ance  of  guarding  against  the  small  beginnings  of  in¬ 
temperance.  From  indulgence  in  a  single  glass  of 
wine,  many  weak-minded  persons  have  been  led  on, 
step  by  step,  to  their  ruin.  We  knew  one  gentleman 
of  large  fortune,  who  thus  acquired  so  strong  a  taste 
for  Champaigne  wine,  that  he  actually  indulged  in 
solitary  drinking  of  this  noxious  beverage  until  it 
killed  him. 


JOHN  HINCHLEY. 


t> 


4 


Bt  Mbs.  C.  M.  Kirkland. 


The  artist  has  designed,  under  this  head,  a  scene 
which  actually  passed  in  our  own  neighbourhood,  at 
the  West.  As  this  is  a  mere  coincidence — no  word 
having  been  said  of  our  floating  recollections  of  the 
occasion — we  are  disposed  to  make  the  picture  the 
ground  of  a  little  homily  we  would  like  to  deliver ; 
premising,  however,  that  we  are  far  from  believing 
such  “steps”  more  characteristic  of  the  West  than  of 
the  East.  Like  circumstances  will  assuredly  pro¬ 
duce  similar  results  every  where. 

We  see  in  the  engraving  four  men  amusing  them- 
selves  in  a  barn  ;  two  at  cards,  (high-low-jack,  we  may 
suppose,)  another  watching  the  game,  and  the  fourth 
raising  to  his  lips  a  keg  or  canteen,  which  we  may 
take  leave  to  fear  does  not  contain  any  thing  so  inno¬ 
cent  as  Croton  water.  Through  the  open  half  door 
we  observe  a  church ;  and,  upon  the  winding  path¬ 
way  which  leads  to  the  sacred  edifice,  a  funeral  pro¬ 
cession. 

This  scene  was  imagined  and  conceived  by  the 
artist  solely  on  the  strength  of  his  own  knowledge 


(167) 


’ 


* 


•  1 

V 


* 

l  ' 

i  :  ■■•• 

\  . 


» 

■  ,  ■;:'  ■* 


' 


' 


. 


JOHN  HINCHLE  Y. 


169 


and  observation  of  human  life  in  general,  and  as  the 
first  of  a  series  expressive  of  the  downward  course 
of  him  who  begins  by  neglecting  duty  for  amusement 
and  indulgence ;  yet  it  is,  as  we  said  before,  an  ac¬ 
tual  transcript  of  reality;  and  we  must  give  our  re 
collections  of  this  one  scene  in  advance  of  the  recitals 
which  are  to  be  illustrated  by  the  series  of  pictures. 

There  was  a  youth  in  a  certain  Western  district, 
the  son  of  very  strict  parents,  who  had  brought  him  up 
in  what  they  certainly  intended  should  be,  “  the  nur¬ 
ture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.”  They  sent  him 
to  school  every  winter,  and  charged  the  master  not  to 
spare  the  rod  if  it  was  needed  to  make  him  a  good 
boy ;  they  made  him  attend  Sabbath-school  with  un¬ 
erring  punctuality,  remember  every  sermon’s  text, 
and  commit  to  memory  a  certain  portion  of  Scripture 
every  Sunday.  While  he  was  quite  young,  they  al¬ 
lowed  him  to  play,  somewhat  like  other  boys ;  but 
when  he  began  to  call  himself  a  young  man,  he  found 
his  wish  for  amusement  continually  thwarted  by  his 
father,  whose  notions  grew  more  and  more  rigid  with 
the  advance  of  years,  and  who  was,  moreover,  under 
influences  which  led  him  to  the  opinion  that  all  gaiety 
is  sinful. 

Now,  we  must  pause  ere  we  proceed,  to  enter  a 
caveat  against  the  imputation  that  we  are  inimical  to 
a  serious  life.  It  is  our  heartfelt  opinion  that  there  is 
no  other  happy  life  ;  that  no  one  has  yet  tasted  happi¬ 
ness  who  doubts  this,  or  has  not  tried  it.  What  we 
would  hint  is,  that  this  life  is  an  inward  life,  and  that 
to  force  the  outward  appearance  of  it  while  the  heart 


170 


JOHN  HINCHLEY. 


is  unconvinced,  is  the  way  to  make  hypocrites  and 
haters  of  all  good  things.  It  is  a  contradiction  to  the 
whole  philosophy  of  human  nature,  to  suppose  that 
virtue  will  be  the  result  of  force.  Even  the  Almighty 
Ruler  has  left  the  choice  to  our  free  will,  giving  us 
at  the  same  time  the  knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  It 
is  the  sacred  duty  of  parents  to  guard  their  children 
from  habits  which  contravene  the  laws  of  God ;  but 
when  they  set  up  severe  and  arbitrary  rules  of  their 
own  in  addition,  they  run  the  risk  of  such  conse¬ 
quences  as  I  am  about  to  describe. 

John  Hinchley  wras  a  well-disposed  boy,  of  consi¬ 
derable  quickness  of  intellect ;  ruddy,  bright-eyed, 
handsome,  and  well-developed.  He  was  a  favourite 
in  the  neighbourhood,  and  always  invited  to  the 
husking,  the  quilting,  the  raising,  in  short,  all  rustic 
merry-makings.  Contrary  to  custom,  his  father  often 
restrained  him  from  accepting  these  invitations,  in¬ 
sisting  upon  his  accomplishing  some  piece  of  work 
which  was  unfinished,  and  lecturing  him  severely 
upon  the  feelings  which  he  sometimes  exhibited  when 
thus  thwarted.  Now  John  was  a  dutiful  son,  thus 
far,  and  particularly  fond  of  his  mother,  who,  though 
very  strict,  was  milder  than  her  husband  and  would 
sometimes  intercede,  on  occasions  when  the  old  maids 
objurgations  bore  too  hard  upon  the  son.  John  was 
sometimes  tempted  to  deceive  both  father  and  mother; 
but  to  his  credit  be  it  spoken,  his  conscience  punished 
him  so  severely  for  this,  that  he  found  such  indulg¬ 
ences  cost  more  than  they  came  to ;  and  his  thoughts 


JOHN  H  INC  II  LEY. 


171 


turned  rather  to  the  best  and  earliest  means  of  getting 
rid  of  parental  restraint  altogether. 

When  he  was  about  nineteen,  a  blacksmith,  who 
lived  at  some  distance,  made  him  an  offer  of  business, 
which  his  father  thought  too  advantageous  to  be  re¬ 
jected,  and  John  was  sent  to  a  new  field  of  labour,  with 
many  earnest  charges  as  to  his  walk  and  conversa¬ 
tion.  But  there  was  a  sad  discrepancy  between  the 
father’s  exhortations  and  denunciations,  and  the  cir¬ 
cumstances  of  the  case;  and  John  knew  this.  He 
knew  that  his  father  was  perfectly  well  aware  that 
the  neighbourhood  to  which  he  was  going  was  a 
notedly  vicious  one,  and  that  love  of  gain  was  the 
sole  inducement  in  sending  him.  This  inconsistency, 
alas !  howT  common  a  one  wTith  the  loudest  talkers 
about  morals  !  completely  neutralized  the  effect  of  the 
solemn  words  with  which  old  Hinchley  dismissed  his 
son ;  and,  although  the  mother’s  tears  were  more 
effectual,  she  was  weak  in  judgment,  and  so  had  not 
commanded  the  respect  of  her  children  as  much  as 
she  had  won  their  love. 

The  blacksmith  with  whom  John  w'as  to  live,  was 
a  man  of  smooth  outside,  so  smooth,  indeed,  that  the 
young  man,  whose  brain  had  been  almost  turned  by 
the  prospect  of  the  boundless  liberty  for  which  he 
had  been  sighing,  feared  at  first  that  he  had  fallen 
into  hands  no  less  rigid  than  his  father’s,  spite  of  the 
reputation  of  the  place,  which  was  called  “Hell-gate” 
by  the  whole  neighbourhood.  But  it  wras  not  long  be¬ 
fore,  happening  to  go  into  the  shop  at  a  very  early 
hour,  he  found  his  employer  and  another  man,  with 


172 


JOHN  HINCHLEY. 


haggard,  anxious  faces,  and  eyes  bloodshot  and  fierce 
with  passion,  liquor,  and  want  of  sleep,  playing  cards 
on  a  block  in  one  corner,  while  “old  Hills,”  and  one 
or  two  others  who  had  been  looking  on,  were  lying 
drunk  in  various  positions  on  the  earthen  floor.  Dis¬ 
guise  was  out  of  the  question  ;  the  blacksmith  was 
not  so  much  intoxicated  as  not  to  perceive  that  excuses 
would  be  worse  than  useless;  so  he  braved  it  out,  and 
invited  John  to  “join  in  the  fun.”  John  did  not  join 
— the7i. 

From  this  time  the  seduction  of  the  unfortunate 
young  man  became  a  settled  object  with  the  black¬ 
smith  and  his  companions;  and  to  make  his  chance 
the  worse,  it  so  happened  that  old  Hills — the  most 
abandoned  drunkard  in  the  whole  place — had  a  pretty 
daughter,  whose  sad  and  downcast  eye  interested  John 
Hinchley  far  more  than  the  gayer  glances  of  her  com¬ 
panions.  He  became  a  familiar  visiter  at  her  father’s, 
and  soon  found  pity  change  to  love  as  he  witnessed 
the  sufferings  of  the  young  woman,  who  was  really 
exemplary,  as  if  incited  by  the  vices  of  those  around 
to  practise  the  industry,  self-denial,  and  reserve  which 
were  so  miserably  deficient  at  “  Hell-gate.” 

It  was  not  long  before  John  and  Mary  were  “  pro¬ 
mised,”  as  they  say  in  the  country  ;  and  dire  was  the 
wrath  of  John’s  father  at  the  news.  He  recalled  his 
son,  but  it  w’as  too  late.  Home  rule  was  over ;  new 
associations  had  been  formed ;  love  exerted  its  all 
powerful  sway ;  and  in  spite  of  the  tears  of  the 
wretched  mother,  John  Hinchley  quarrelled  with  his 
father,  and  left  the  house  under  his  curse,  to  return 


JOHN  HINCHLEY. 


173 


to  Mary  and  liberty.  Before  be  was  of  age  be  had 
married  Mary  Hills,  and  become  a  partner  of  the  dis¬ 
solute  blacksmith,  who  held  out  the  only  chance  of 
living  at  all,  though  at  the  expense  of  all  that  makes 
life  worth  having. 

The  young  couple  were  really  attached,  and  had 
good  qualities  enough  to  have  made  their  affection 
serve  for  a  whole  life’s  quiet  happiness,  if  the  bosom 
talisman  of  fixed  principle  had  not  been  wanting. 
But  children  came — means  were  scanty — home  was 
uncomfortable — Mary  became  cross  under  penury 
and  ill-health,  while  John’s  wicked  companions  seem¬ 
ed  jolly,  and  declared  that  they  took  the  world  very 
easy.  The  blacksmith  was  one  of  those  sots  who  do 
their  work  well,  and  who  manage,  by  the  aid  of  an 
iron  constitution,  to  keep  up  business  and  vice  to¬ 
gether,  for  a  time,  deceiving  both  themselves  and 
others  as  to  the  final  result.  John  imitated  his  part¬ 
ner,  but  with  inferior  success.  His  health  became  dis¬ 
ordered  ;  his  hand  was  unsteady ;  his  work  did  not 
please ;  high  words  often  arose  between  him  and  the 
more  robust  sinner.  Friendship,  cemented  only  by 
evil  propensities,  is  fleeting  as  dew;  and  discord 
added  her  fell  torch  to  the  remains  of  poor  John’s 
happiness. 

Behold  him  now  the  fit  companion  of  his  father-in- 
law — him  !  who  had  chosen  Mary  from  all  the  world, 
because  he  pitied  the  wretchedness  and  loved  the  vir¬ 
tues  of  the  drunkard’s  daughter!  From  one  degree 
of  neglect  to  another — from  unkind  words  to  absolute 
desertion — from  finding  the  children  a  plague,  to  the 


s 


174 


JOHN  HINCKLEY. 


loss  of  even  instinctive  affection  for  them' — he  fell 
lower  and  lower;  until,  while  his  eldest  child  was  jn 
the  death-agony,  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to  quit  his 
game  of  cards.  She  died — he  played  on.  In  vain 
did  the  neighbours  persuade  and  shame  him;  he 

turned  the  adder’s  deafness  to  their  words.  When 

% 

night  came  he  drank  deeper  than  usual,  and  slept, 
the  deep,  swinish  sleep  of  inebriation,  on  the  floor  of 
the  shop.  The  next  day  the  funeral  of  his  child  pass¬ 
ed  on  its  way  to  the  burial-ground.  There  were  John 
and  his  companions  still  at  cards ;  there  was  old  Hills 
at  his  potations;  and  while  every  body  was  crying 
shame  upon  them,  they  only  clung  the  closer  to  the 
indulgences  to  which  alone  their  now  degraded  na- 
tures  looked  for  happiness. 

Happiness !  oh  profane  estimate !  fatuity  inconceiv¬ 
able  ! 

Guilt’s  blunder,  and  the  loudest  laugh  of  hell ! 

* 

Wretchedness  dogged  the  steps  of  John  Hinchley 
and  his  once  lovely  Mary ;  poverty  came  upon  them, 
and  “want  like  an  armed  man.”  They  have  long 
ago  ceased  to  take  their  place  with  others  at  meeting, 
or  at  the  social  gathering.  Their  children  cannot  go 
to  school,  for  want  of  decent  clothing;  their  dwelling 
is  falling  down  for  very  misery.  Man  can  do  no¬ 
thing  for  them,  since  they  have  the  art  of  turning 
even  benevolence  to  poison.  May  God  have  mercy 
upon  them,  and  upon  all  such ! 

If  we  should  be  asked,  in  reference  to  our  descrip¬ 
tion  of  John’s  early  training,  how  we  would  have  had 


/ 


JOHN  H1NCHLEY.  175 

it  changed  ;  whether  we  think  it  better  that  the  stern 
father  should  have  allowed  his  son  to  join  in  amuse¬ 
ments  that  he  disapproved,  we  reply — that  while  we 
believe  it  the  bounden  duty  of  parents  to  restrain 
their  children  from  participation  in  whatever  recrea¬ 
tions  may  seem  to  them  likely  to  prove  injurious,  we 
are  sure  it  is  equally  incumbent  on  them  to  provide 
for  them  those  which  are  innocent.  And  again,  while 
parents  are  inexcusable  if  they  allow  disobedience  in 
their  children,  they  sin  deeply  if  they  require  this 
obedience  in  any  other  than  the  spirit  of  love.  Stern¬ 
ness,  want  of  sympathy,  and  too  great  rigor  of  habits 
at  home,  drive  many  a  youth  to  vice,  who  might  have 
been  preserved  by  watchful  love,  the  care  which 
springs  from  devoted  affection,  and  the  cheerfulness 
which  every  young  heart  craves.  Good  humour, 
vivacity,  sympathy,  benevolence,  are  not  the  fruits  of 
an  ascetic  life ;  and  more  especially  is  compulsory  as¬ 
ceticism  unfavourable  to  the  cultivation  of  those  ameni¬ 
ties  on  which  so  much  of  the  comfort,  happiness,  and 
safety  of  life  depends. 

The  inconsistency  which  we  notice  in  the  conduct 
of  John  Hinchley’s  father,  is  a  fruitful  source  of  evil 
in  education.  The  parent  who  is  strict  to  excess  as 
to  many  little  outward  conformities  with  the  world, 
will  yet  show  himself  to  be  the  slave  of  mammon,  or 
the  victim  of  evil  tempers,  or  the  petty  tyrant — behind 
the  scenes.  How  much  of  the  misconduct  and  un¬ 
happiness  of  young  people  is  the  direct  fruit  of  a 
deficiency  of  virtue,  or  sincere  effort  at  virtue  in 
their  parents,  is  an  awful  thought  for  many  of  us. 


* 


176  JOHN  HINCHLEY. 

Let  us  never  imagine  that  any  outward  strictness  can 
atone  for  the  want  of  that  deep-seated,  and  operative 
goodness,  which  alone  has  the  promise  of  Heaven’s 
blessing  upon  its  efforts,  its  sacrifices,  and  its  hopes. 

We  should  always  be  ready  to  strengthen  the  in 
fluence  of  precept  by  the  force  of  example.  The 
parent,  while  pointing  the  way  to  Heaven,  should 
always  evince  a  readiness  to  walk  in  the  narrow  path 
that  leads  to  eternal  life. 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


By  D.  Strooz,  Jr. 


One  afternoon,  early  in  the  autumn  of  1845,  a  little 
boy  knocked  at  the  door  of  an  humble  dwelling,  in 
one  of  the  districts  of  Philadelphia.  “  Is  Mrs.  Arnold 
in?”  he  inquired  of  the  individual  who  answered  his 
summons. 

“  She  is  in  her  room,”  was  the  reply ;  and  the  boy 
was  shown  into  it.  A  tall,  sickly-looking  woman 

(177) 


) 


178 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


arose  to  meet  him.  He  presented  her  with  a  piece  of 
paper,  awkwardly  folded,  and  soiled  with  finger-marks 
and  oil.  She  ran  her  eye  hastily  over  it,  and  then, 
pausing  for  a  moment,  told  the  boy  that  she  could  not 
come.  As  he  retired,  she  sat  dowq  by  a  table,  and, 
resting  her  head  on  her  hand,  appeared  to  relapse 
into  a  train  of  sad  thoughts  which  the  boy’s  entrance 
had  interrupted. 

Ten  minutes  had  scarcely. elapsed,  before  another 
and  heavier  rap  announced  a  second  messenger.  A 
man  entered,  and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Arnold. 

“  I  am  Mrs.  Arnold,”  answered  the  woman. 

“  Madam,”  said  the  man.  “  let  me  entreat  you,  for 
God’s  sake,  to  visit  the  individual  who  is  called  your 
husband.  He  has  not  two  hours  to  live,  and  during 
his  sane  moments,  he  calls  loudly  on  your  name,  and 
inquires  when  you  will  come.  I  fear  his  death  will 
be  an  awful  one  if  he  does  not  see  you.” 

“  I  cannot  come,”  the  woman  replied  in  a  husky 
voice. 

“  Let  me  entreat  you,”  the  stranger  persisted.  “  I 
know  not  what  may  be  between  your  husband  and 
yourself,  but  do  not  refuse  this  request  which  I  am 
convinced  will  be  his  last.  When  the  fit  is  on  him, 
he  talks  only  of  you,  and  of  the  hours  of  happiness 
you  once  passed  together  Do  not  refuse  him  this 
small  comfort  in  death’s  agonies.” 

Mrs.  Arnold  paused.  There  was,  in  her  features, 
the  hardened  expression  which  years  of  grief  some¬ 
times  imparts  even  to  the  countenance  of  woman. 
Yet  beneath  this  might  be  seen  an  occasional  gleam 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


179 


of  finer  feeling,  telling  that  the  soul  had  not  lost  all 
its  sensitiveness  for  the  woes  of  others.  The  stran¬ 
ger  noticed  the  mental  conflict,  and  renewed  his  ex¬ 
hortation. 

“  Did  he  call  me  by  name?”  asked  Mrs.  Arnold. 

“He  did,”  replied  the  man.  “  He  denounced  his 

former  life  as  the  cause  of  all  your  misery,  and  spoke 

of  former  times  spent  with  you,  in  a  manner  that  drew  , 

a  sigh  from  every  heart.  Shall  I  tell  him  you  are 

coming  ?” 

°  * 

“Yes,”  said  Mrs.  Arnold.  “I  had  thought  never 
again  to  see  him  ;  but  I  will  go  this  once.” 

The  man  bowed,  and  departed ;  and,  as  the  door 
was  heard  closing  upon  him,  a  feeling,  to  which  the 
banished  wife  had  long  been  a  stranger,  came  upon 
her.  A  chord  strung  in  other  days,  but  long  since 
neglected,  had  suddenly  awoke  to  its  former  melody. 
She  seemed  to  move  in  the  past — to  hear  the  tones 
of  love,  and  see  the  smiles  which  were  around  her 
when  her  children  first  learned  to  lisp  her  name,  and 
her  husband  was  not  a  drunkard.  Now  she  was 
hastening  to  the  last  interview  with  the  only  one  of 
her  kindred  that  still  remained  to  her.  The  feeling 
of  estrangement,  which,. as  she  once  supposed,  had 
stifled  every  other  feeling,  gave  way  in  a  moment 
to  an  intense  desire  to  see  her  husband. 

Seizing  the  note,  she  hastily  glanced  at  the  di¬ 
rection,  and  hurried  into  the  street.  After  winding 
her  way  along  several  narrow  streets,  the  abodes  of 
wretchedness  and  crime,  she  stopped  before  a  small 

house,  and,  descending  three  steps,  opened  a  door 

13 


180 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


which  led  into  a  gloomy  and  naked  basement  room 
It  was  destitute  of  furniture,  unless  we  dignify  by 
that  name  a  three  legged  stool,  with  the  back  broken 
off,  a  rickety  table,  and  some  straw  beds.  Three  or 
four  persons  were  moving  about  the  room;  and, 
although  the  sun  had  not  set,  a  candle  was  burning 
on  the  window-ledge. 

Death  was  busy  in  this  dreary  abode.  Upon  some 
mattrasses  in  a  corner,  lay  the  once  gay  Albert 
Arnold,  writhing  in  the  horrors  of  delirium  tremens. 

The  first  sounds  heard  by  the  wife  on  entering, 
were  the  moans  of  her  husband.  During  thre§  years 
she  had  lived  estranged  from  him,  neither  hearing  nor 
seeing  him.  There  was  something  fearful  in  the 
accents  with  which  the  reconciliation  had  begun. 
Pale  with  anxiety  and  terror,  she  paused  at  the  door, 
holding  the  latch  in  her  hand.  A  man  approached. 

“Are  you  Mrs.  Arnold  ?” 

She  replied  in  the  affirmative. 

“  You  have  come  to  speak  with  your  husband  ?” 

She  nodded  assent. 

“  It  is  too  late.  Look  at  him.” 

The  woman  turned  in  the  direction  indicated.  A 
poor  maniac,  tossing  his  hands,  rolling  from  side  to 
side,  and  raving  in  a  voice  already  rendered  hoarse  by 
the  touch  of  death.  The  candle  shed  sufficient  light 
upon  his  face,  to  render  visible  the  eyes,  bloodshot, 
wide  open,  and  staring ;  the  muscles  hardened  to  the 
rigidity  of  iron,  the  distorted  features,  the  teeth, 
shining  madman-like  from  between  the  severed  lips. 
Approaching,  she  kneeled  beside  him,  but  had  no 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


181 


words  suited  to  the  intensity  of  feeling  which  such  a 
scene  inspires. 

“  Mr.  Arnold,”  said  the  nurse,  kneeling  beside  the 
wife.  He  ceased  raving,  and  turned  his  head  with  a 
cold  simple  stare,  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  “Your 
wife  is  here,”  continued  the  woman,  hoping  that  some 
word  connected  with  her  name,  might  illumine  his 
mind  with  a  ray  of  reason.  But  in  his  countenance 
remained  the  same  cold  expression ;  while  his  hand 
moved  rapidly  and  ceaselessly,  over  his  wretched  bed. 

“  Speak  to  him  yourself,”  said  the  nurse. 

“Albert,”  whispered  the  wife,  bending  her  head  to¬ 
wards  his,  “  Have  you  forgotten  your  own  Annie — 
Annie  Campbell  ?” 

Suddenly  he  turned  his  head  towards  her,  and 
pressed  together  his  parched  lips,  hard  and  rapidly. 
Reason  seemed  struggling  to  regain  her  seat.  But 
the  transient  emotion  departed,  the  eye  and  the  lips 
resumed  their  fixedness,  and  he  stared  again,  the  ter¬ 
rible  stare  of  the  maniac,  more  fearful  from  its  silence 
than  his  former  ravings. 

“  He  cannot  hear  you,”  said  the  nurse. 

“  Oh,  it  is  dreadful,”  sobbed  the  poor  wife  as  she 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

“Albert,  Albert,  speak  to  me,”  she  continued  lean¬ 
ing  over  him.  “  Do  not  die  in  this  horrible  manner.” 

“  He  will  never  speak  with  you  again,”  said  the 
nurse. 

“  Ha !  ha !  ha !”  shouted  the  dying  man,  with  a  voice, 
that,  made  every  one  shudder.  “  Ha !  ha !  ha  !  ha !  I 
remember  her  well,  Annie  Campbell,  Annie  Campbell, 


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THE  LAST  INTERVIEW 


my  own  dear  Annie.  Oh  yes,  oh  yes — I  will  sing 
the  song  she  used  to  sing  to  me — listen,  she  is  sing- 
irg  now.  Oh  enchanting/’  he  continued  clasping 
his  hands,  with  convulsive  energy.  “  But  she  is  dead, 
gone — she  died  a  raving  maniac — I  called  her,  and 
she  would  not  come  to  see  me — cruel  Annie — she 
died  alone.  All  flesh  is  as  grass.  She  died  alone. ” 

“  Speak  to  him  again,”  said  the  nurse.  The  wife 
whispered  her  name  in  his  ear. 

“  She  died  alone, — alone  !”  and  his  voice  hung  on 
the  word,  as  the  departing  soul  to  life.  “We  sailed  on 
the  river  at  night — so  still  and  beautiful — her  song, 
her  song.  There  were  bright  eyes  beaming  on  me 
but  I  saw  only  Annie’s.  The  moon  too  and  the  stars, 
they  were  beaming.  I  see  them,  shining  far  down, 
in  the  deep  water.  It  is  too  much — too  lovely.  See 
the  green  trees  by  the  river’s  bank,  and  the  glassy 
waves,  sparkling— -the  moonlight  is  chasing  them 
along.  The  sun  is  not  there.  He  went  down  long 

O  O 

ago,  among  the  dead  people.  Annie  is  gone  too.  She 
would  not  come  to  me  when  I  sent  for  her.  I  hear 
her  singing,  but  I’ll  never  see  her  again.  She  died 
alone.” 

The  maniac  rolled  on  his  side,  and  clenching  his 
hands  tightly,  became  again  silent.  One  of  the  men 
came  near,  and  bathed  his  head  with  cold  water. 
There  was  a  long  pause,  interrupted  only  by  the 
whispers  of  the  attendants,  the  moans  of  the  dying 
man,  or  the  sobs  of  his  wife.  A  student  of  medicine, 
who  was  in  the  room,  stooped  down  and  felt  his  pulse. 
To  Mrs.  Arnold’s  eager  inquiry  he  shook  his  head; 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


183 


and  when  further  pressed,  he  replied  that  he  was 
failing  fast 

“And  must  he  die  thus?”  said  the  wife. 

,  “  The  main  disease  has  been  broken,”  the  student 
replied,  “  his  case  is  now  one  of  ordinary  insanity. 
Death  is  approaching ;  but  a  gleam  of  reason  may 
still  illume  his  last  moments.” 

Scarcely  was  this  sentence  uttered,  when  the  ma¬ 
niac  sprung  suddenly  to  a  sitting  posture.  His  eyes 
glared  as  though  starting  from  their  sockets. 

“I  have  been  there,”  he  said,  in  a  tone  whose  calm¬ 
ness  was  terrible.  “  It  was  horrible,  horrible.” 

“Where  have  you  been?”  asked  the  student,  hu¬ 
mouring  his  madness. 

“To  the  regions  of  woe,”  continued  the  maniac, 
while  his  frame  shuddered  with  the  remembrance  of 
the  recent  vision;  and  then,  he  poured  forth  words 
wild  and  blasphemous,  as  if  they  had  actually  been 
learned  in  the  abodes  of  despair.  Gradually,  however, 
he  grew  calmer,  and  at  length  sunk  upon  his  bed 
exhausted- 

This  painful  scene  was  drawing  to  a  close.  For 
more  than  an  hour  the  wife  had  endured  it ;  and  now 
some  straggling  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  gleaming 
through  the  window,  fell  upon  her  husband’s  face, 
and  showed  the  change  which  had  been  wrought 
there,  even  in  that  short  time.  Amid  all  the  inexpli¬ 
cable  phases  of  that  mysterious,  mental  wandering 
which  we  call  insanity,  nothing  is  more  wonderful 
than  the  apparently  trivial  manner,  in  which  its  spell 
is  frequently  broken,  and  reason  restored.  A  word 


184 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


— a  look — the  ticking  of  a  clock,  or  the  chirp  of  a 
cricket,  has  restored  those,  over  whom  doctors  knit 
their  brows  and  looked  wise  in  vain.  Was  there  that, 
in  the  solitary  sunbeam,  which  could  harmonize  the 
deranged  faculties  of  this  poor  maniac?  It  seemed 
so ;  for  as  it  played  warmly  on  his  cheek,  he  raised 
his  eyes  suddenly  towards  it,  and  appeared  to  regain 
some  recollection,  bright  as  itself.  His  fixed  eyelids 
relaxed  and  partially  closed,  his  lips  lost  their  con¬ 
traction,  and  his  face  its  rigidity.  Reason  was  re¬ 
stored. 

“  He  is  sensible,”  said  the  student.  Every  one 
started.  The  miserable  wife  once  more  gazed  upon 
her  husband ;  and,  for  the  first  time,  since  many  a 
weary  month  had  elapsed,  their  glances  met.  A  long¬ 
ing  gaze,  and  the  quivering  of  his  lip,  told  that  she 
was  recognized,  but  there  was  no  welcome  of  the 
voice.  Silence,  which  may  not  be  broken  this  side 
the  grave,  had  sealed  his  lips.  Bending  over  him, 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  deepened  by  the  solemnity 
of  the  scene  around — 

“  Albert !  do  you  know  me  ?” 

A  faint  smile  illumined  his  countenance,  and  his 
voice  struggled  for  utterance.  Even  these  poor  marks 
of  recognition  were  precious  .in  a  last  interview. 

“Will  you  speak  to  me?”  she  continued,  her 
anxiety  increasing  as  death  came  nearer.  There  was 
no  answer — only  the  smile  hovering  around  the  lips. 
That,  too,  ceased  at  last,  and  even  the  tones  of  the 
wife,  begging  her  husband’s  farewell,  were  hushed. 
The  long  pause  that  succeeded  was  broken  by  a  deep 


THE  LAST  INTERVIEW. 


185 


groan  from  the  dying  man.  Stretching  himself  to  his 
full  length,  he  rolled  his  eyes  upward,  and  remained 
motionless. 

The  student  spoke  first.  “  He  is  dead,”  said  he. 

The  nurse  reached  the  candle  from  the  window¬ 
sill.  Its  light,  falling  upon  his  features,  showed  too 
truly  that  death  had  indeed  laid  his  hand  there.  She 
touched  his  breast,  but  the  fluttering  of  the  heart  had 
ceased.  ' 

“  Poor  man  !”  said  the  nurse  to  Mrs.  Arnold.  “  He 
had  still  some  tender  feelings  left.  He  talked  night 
and  day  of  you,  whom  he  called  his  murdered  Annie. 
I  wish  the  rumseller  had  but  witnessed  his  death.” 

The  wife,  still  kneeling  beside  him,  held  one  of  her 
hands  over  his  brow,  while  with  the  other  she  covered 
her  own.  “  Oh  !”  she  exclaimed  at  intervals,  while 
tears  came  to  her  eyes,  “did  I  think,  when  we  first 
met,  that  our  last  interview  would  be  like  this!” 

The  student  stood  talking  with  the  other  men 
“  See,”  he  said  to  one  of  them,  “the  doings  of  Rum!” 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


From  the  Dublin  University  Magazine. 


About  the  year  17 — ,  having  been  appointed  to  the 

living  of  C - h,  I  rented  a  small  house  in  the  town 

which  bears  the  same  name.  One  morning,  in  the 
month  of  November,  I  was  awakened  before  my  usual 
time  by  my  servant,  who  bustled  into  my  bed-room 
for  the  purpose  of  announcing  a  sick  call.  As  the 
Catholic  church  holds  her  last  rites  to  be  totally  indis¬ 
pensable  to  the  safety  of  the  departing  sinner,  no  con¬ 
scientious  clergyman  can  afford  a  moment’s  unneces¬ 
sary  delay;  and  in  little  more  than  five  minutes  I 
stood,  ready  cloaked  and  booted  for  the  road,  in  the 
small  front  parlour,  in  which  the  messenger,  who  was 
to  act  as  my  guide,  awaited  my  coming.  I  found  a 
poor  little  girl,  crying  piteously,  near  the  door,  and, 
after  some  slight  difficulty,  I  ascertained  that  her  fa¬ 
ther  was  either  dead,  or  just  dying. 

“  And  what  may  be  your  father’s  name,  my  poor 
child  ?”  said  I.  She  held  down  her  head  as  if  ashamed. 
I  repeated  the  question,  and  the  wretched  little  crea¬ 
ture  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears  still  more  bitter  than 

she  had  shed  before.  At  length,  almost  provoked  by 

(186) 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


187 


conduct  which  appeared  to  me  so  unreasonable,  I  be¬ 
gan  to  lose  patience,  spite  of  the  pity  which  I  could 
not  help  feeling  towards  her;  and  I  said,  rather 
harshly,  “  If  you  will  not  tell  me  the  name  of  the  per¬ 
son  to  whom  you  would  lead  me,  your  silence  can 
arise  from  no  good  motive,  and  I  might  be  justified  in 
refusing  to  go  with  you  at  all.” 

“  Oh !  don’t  say  that,  don’t  say  that,”  cried  she. 
Oh,  sir  !  it  was  that  I  was  afeard  of,  when  I  wmuld  not 
tell  you  :  I  was  afeard  when  you  heard  his  name  you 
would  not  come  with  me;  but  it  is  no  use  hidin’  it 
now  :  it’s  Pat  Connell,  the  carpenter,  your  honour.” 

She  looked  in  my  face  with  the  most  earnest  anxiety, 
as  if  her  very  existence  depended  upon  what  she 
should  read  there ;  hut  I  relieved  her  at  once.  The 
name,  indeed,  w^as  most  unpleasantly  familiar  to  me; 
but,  however  fruitless  my  visits  and  advice  might 
have  been  at  another  time,  the  present  wTas  too  fearful 
an  occasion  to  suffer  my  doubts  of  their  utility  as  my 
reluctance  to  re-attempting  what  appeared  a  hopeless 
task,  to  wTeigh  even  against  the  lightest  chance,  that  a 
consciousness  of  his  imminent  danger  might  produce 
in  him  a  more  docile  and  tractable  disposition.  Ac¬ 
cordingly,  I  told  the  child  to  lead  the  way,  and  fol¬ 
lowed  her  in  silence.  She  hurried  rapidly  through 
the  long  narrow  street  which  forms  the  great  thorough¬ 
fare  of  the  town.  The  darkness  of  the  hour,  rendered 
still  deeper  by  the  close  approach  of  the  old-fashioned 
houses,  which  lowered  in  tall  obscurity  on  either  side 
of  the  way;  the  damp,  dreary  chill  which  renders  the 
advance  of  morning  peculiarly  cheerless,  combined 


188  the  drunkard’s  dream. 

with  the  object  of  my  walk — to  visit  the  deathbed  of  a 
presumptuous  sinner,  to  endeavour,  almost  against  my 
own  conviction,  to  infuse  a  hope  into  the  heart  of  a 
dying  reprobate,  a  drunkard,  but  too  probably  perish¬ 
ing  under  the  consequences  of  some  mad  fit  of  intoxi¬ 
cation  ;  all  these  circumstances  united,  served  to  en¬ 
hance  the  gloom  and  solemnity  of  my  feelings,  as  I 
silently  followed  my  little  guide,  who,  with  quick 
steps,  traversed  the  uneven  pavement  of  the  main 
street.  After  a  walk  of  about  five  minutes,  she  turned 
off  into  a  narrow  lane,  of  that  obscure  and  comfortless 
class  which  are  to  be  found  in  almost  all  small  old- 
fashioned  towns — chill,  without  ventilation,  reeking 
with  all  manner  of  offensive  efiluviae,  dingy,  smoky, 
sickly,  and  pent-up  buildings,  frequently  not  only  in 
a  wretched,  but  in  a  dangerous  condition. 

“  Your  father  has  changed  his  abode  since  I  last 
visited  him,  and,  I  am  afraid,  much  for  the  worse,” 
said  I. 

“  Indeed  he  has,  sir ;  but  we  must  not  complain,” 
replied  she ;  “  we  have  to  thank  God  that  we  have 
lodging  and  food,  though  it’s  poor  enough,  it  is,  your 
honour.” 

“Poor  child!”  thought  I;  “how  many  an  older 
head  might  learn  wisdom  from  thee !  how  many  a 
luxurious  philosopher,  who  is  skilled  to  preach  but 
not  to  suffer,  might  not  thy  patient  words  put  to  the 
blush  !” 

The  manner  and  language  of  this  child  were  alike 
above  her  years  and  station ;  and,  indeed,  in  all  cases 
in  which  the  cares  and  sorrows  of  life  have  antici- 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


189 


pated  their  usual  date,  and  have  fallen,  as  they  some¬ 
times  do,  with  melancholy  prematurity  to  the  lot  of 
childhood,  I  have  observed  the  result  to  prove  uni¬ 
formly  the  same.  A  young  mind,  to  which  joy  and 
indulgence  have  been  strangers,  and  to  which  suffer¬ 
ing  and  self-denial  have  been  familiarized  from  the 
first,  acquires  a  solidity  and  an  elevation  which  no 
other  discipline  could  have  bestowed,  and  which,  in 
the  present  case,  communicated  a  striking  but  mourn¬ 
ful  peculiarity  to  the  manners — even  to  the  voice  of 
the  child.  We  paused  before  a  narrow,  crazy  door, 
which  she  opened  by  means  of  a  latch,  and  we  forth¬ 
with  began  to  ascend  the  steep  and  broken  stairs, 
which  led  upwards  to  the  sick  man’s  room.  As  we 
mounted  flight  after  flight  towards  the  garret  floor,  I 
heard,  more  and  more  distinctly,  the  hurried  talking 
of  many  voices.  I  could  also  distinguish  the  low  sob¬ 
bing  of  a  female.  On  arriving  upon  the  uppermost 
lobby,  these  sounds  became  fully  audible. 

“  This  way,  your  honour,”  said  my  little  conduc¬ 
tress,  at  the  same  time  pushing  open  a  door  of  patched 
and  half-rotten  plank,  she  admitted  me  into  the  squalid 
chamber  of  death  and  misery.  But  one  candle,  held 
in  the  fingers  of  a  seared  and  haggard-looking  child, 
was  burning  in  the  room,  and  that  so  dim  that  all  was 
twilight  or  darkness  except  within  its  immediate  in¬ 
fluence.  The  general  obscurity,  however,  served  to 
throw  into  prominent  and  startling  relief  the  death¬ 
bed  and  its  occupant.  The  light  was  nearly  approxi¬ 
mated  to,  and  fell  with  horrible  clearness  upon,  the 
blue  and  swollen  features  of  the  drunkard.  I  did  not 


190 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 

think  it  possible  that  a  human  countenance  could  look 
so  terrific.  The  lips  were  black,  and  drawn  apart ; 
the  teeth  were  firmly  set ;  the  eyes  a  little  unclosed, 
and  nothing  but  the  whites  appearing ;  every  feature 
was  fixed  and  livid,  and  the  whole  face  wore  a  ghastly 
and  rigid  expression  of  despairing  terror,  such  as  I 
never  saw  equalled.  His  hands  were  crossed  upon  his 
breast,  and  firmly  clenched  ;  while,  as  if  to  add  to  the 
corpse-like  effect  of  the  whole,  some  white  cloths,  dip¬ 
ped  in  water,  were  wound  about  the  forehead  and 
temples.  As  soon  as  I  could  remove  my  eyes  from 
this  horrible  spectacle,  I  observed  my  friend  Dr.  D — , 
one  of  the  most  humane  of  a  humane  profession,  stand¬ 
ing  by  the  bed-side.  He  had  been  attempting,  but  un¬ 
successfully,  to  bleed  the  patient,  and  had  now  ap¬ 
plied  his  finger  to  the  pulse. 

“  Is  there  any  hope?”  I  inquired  in  a  whisper. 

A  shake  of  the  head  was  the  reply.  There  was  a 
pause  while  he  continued  to  hold  the  w~rist;  but  he 
waited  in  vain  for  the  throb  of  life ;  it  was  not  there ; 
and  when  he  let  go  the  hand,  it  fell  stiffly  back  into 
its  former  position  upon  the  other. 

“  The  man  is  dead,”  said  the  physician,  as  he  turned 
from  the  bed  where  the  terrible  figure  lay. 

“Dead!”  thought  I,  scarcely  venturing  to  look 
upon  the  tremendous  and  revolting  spectacle  :  “dead ! 
without  an  hour  for  repentance — even  a  moment  for 
reflection !  Dead,  without  the  rites  which  even  the 
best  should  have !  Is  there  hope  for  him  ?”  The 
glaring  eyeball,  the  grinning  mouth,  the  distorted 
brow,  that  unutterable  look  in  which  a  painter  would 


191 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM 

have  sought  to  embody  the  fixed  despair  of  the  nether¬ 
most  hell — these  were  my  answer. 

The  poor  wife,  sat  at  a  little  distance,  crying  as  if 
her  heart  wrnuld  break :  the  younger  children  clus¬ 
tered  round  the  bed,  looking,  with  wondering  cu¬ 
riosity,  upon  the  form  of  death,  never  seen  before. 
When  the  first  tumult  of  uncontrollable  sorrow  had 
passed  away,  availing  myself  of  the  solemnity  and  im¬ 
pressiveness  of  the  scene,  I  desired  the  heart-stricken 
family  to  accompany  me  in  prayer ;  and  all  knelt  down, 
while  I  solemnly  and  fervently  repeated  some  of  those 
prayers  which  appeared  most  applicable  to  the  occa¬ 
sion.  I  employed  myself  thus  in  a  manner  which,  I 
trusted,  was  not  unprofitable,  at  least  to  the  living,  for 
about  ten  minutes ;  and  having  accomplished  my  task, 
I  was  the  first  to  arise.  I  looked  upon  the  poor,  sob¬ 
bing,  helpless  creatures  who  knelt  so  humbly  around 
me,  and  my  heart  bled  for  them.  With  a  natural 
transition,  I  turned  my  eyes  from  them  to  the  bed  in 
which  the  body  lay;  and,  great  God!  what  was  the 
revulsion,  the  horror  which  I  experienced,  on  seeing 
the  corpse-like,  terrific  thing  seated  half  upright  be¬ 
fore  me.  The  white  cloths  which  had  been  wound 
round  the  head,  had  now  partly  slipped  from  their 
position,  and  were  hanging  in  grotesque  festoons 
about  the  face  and  shoulders,  while  the  distorted  eyes 
leered  from  amid  them — 

“  A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell.” 

I  stood  actually  riveted  to  the  spot.  The  figure  nod 
ded  its  head,  and  lifted  its  arm,  I  thought,  with  a  me- 


192 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


nacing  gesture.  A  thousand  confused  and  horrible 
thoughts  at  once  rushed  upon  my  mind.  I  had  often 
read  that  the  body  of  a  presumptuous  sinner,  who, 
during  life,  had  been  the  willing  creature  of  every 
satanic  impulse,  after  the  human  tenant  had  deserted 
it,  had  been  known  to  become  the  horrible  sport  of 
demoniac  possession.  I  was  roused  from  the  stupefac¬ 
tion  of  terror  in  which  I  stood,  by  the  piercing  scream 
of  the  mother,  who  now,  for  the  first  time,  perceived 
the  change  which  had  taken  place.  She  rushed  to¬ 
wards  the  bed ;  but,  stunned  by  the  shock,  and  over¬ 
come  by  the  conflict  of  violent  emotions,  before  she 
reached  it  she  fell  prostrate  upon  the  floor.  I  am  per¬ 
fectly  convinced,  that  had  I  not  been  startled  from 
the  torpidity  of  horror,  in  which  I  was  bound,  by  some 
powerful  and  arousing  stimulant,  I  should  have  gazed 
upon  this  unearthly  apparition  until  I  had  fairly  lost 
my  senses.  As  it  was,  however,  the  spell  was  broken; 
superstition  gave  way  to  reason  :  the  man,  whom  all 
believed  to  have  been  actually  dead,  was  living.  Dr. 

D -  was  instantly  standing  by  the  bedside,  and, 

upon  examination,  he  found  that  a  sudden  and  copious 
flow  of  blood  had  taken  place  from  the  wound  which 
the  lancet  had  left,  and  this,  no  doubt,  had  effected 
his  sudden,  and  almost  preternatural  restoration  to  an 
existence  from  which  all  thought  he  had  been  for  ever 
removed.  The  man  was  still  speechless,  but  he  seemed 
to  understand  the  physician  when  he  forbid  his  re¬ 
peating  the  painful  and  fruitless  attempts  which  he 
made  to  articulate ;  and  he  at  once  resigned  himself 
quietly  into  his  hands. 


1 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM.  193 

0 

I  left  the  patient  with  leeches  upon  his  temples, 
and  bleeding  freely,  apparently  with  little  of  the  drow¬ 
siness  which  accompanies  apoplexy ;  indeed,  Dr. 

D - told  me  that  he  had  never  before  witnessed  a 

seizure  which  seemed  to  combine  the  symptoms  of  so 
many  kinds,  and  yet  which  belonged  to  none  of  the 
recognized  classes ;  it  certainly  was  not  apoplexy, 
catalepsy,  nor  delirium  tremens ,  and  yet  it  seemed,  in 
some  degree,  to  partake  of  the  properties  of  all.  It 
was  strange,  but  stranger  things  are  coming. 

During  two  or  three  days  Dr.  D - would  not  al¬ 

low  his  patient  to  converse  in  a  manner  which  could 
excite  or  exhaust  him,  with  any  one;  he  sufFered  him 
merely,  as  briefly  as  possible,  to  express  his  imme¬ 
diate  wants,  and  it  was  not  until  the  fourth  day  after 
my  early  visit,  the  particulars  of  which  I  have  just 
detailed,  that  it  was  thought  expedient  that  I  should 
see  him,  and  then  only  because  it  appeared  that  his 
extreme  importunity  and  impatience  were  likely  to  re¬ 
tard  his  recovery  more  than  the  mere  exhaustion  at¬ 
tendant  upon  a  short  conversation  could  possibly  do ; 
perhaps,  too,  my  friend  entertained  some  hope  that  if, 
by  holy  confession  his  patient’s  bosom  were  eased  of 
the  perilous  stuff,  which,  no  doubt,  oppressed  it,  his 
recovery  would  be  more  assured  and  rapid.  It  was, 
then,  as  I  have  said,  upon  the  fourth  day  after  my  first 
professional  call,  that  I  found  myself  once  more  in  the 

drearv  chamber  of  want  and  sickness.  The  man  was  in 
»/ 

bed,  and  appeared  low  and  restless.  On  my  entering 
the  room  he  raised  himself  in  the  bed,  and  muttered 
twice  or  thrice,  “  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !”  I  signed 


194  the  drunkard’s  dream. 

to  those  of  his  family  who  stood  by,  to  leave  the  room, 
and  took  a  chair  beside  the  bed.  So  soon  as  we  were 
alone  he  said,  rather  doggedly,  “  There’s  no  use  now 
in  telling  me  of  the  sinfulness  of  bad  ways ;  I  know  it 
all ;  I  know  where  they  lead  to ;  I  have  seen  every  thing 
about  it  with  my  own  eyesight,  as  plain  as  I  see  you.” 
He  rolled  himself  in  the  bed,  as  if  to  hide  his  face  in 
the  clothes,  and  then  suddenly  raising  himself,  he  ex¬ 
claimed,  with  startling  vehemence,  “  Look,  sir,  there 
is  no  use  in  mincing  the  matter  ;  I’m  blasted  with  the 
fires  of  hell ;  I  have  been  in  hell ;  what  do  you  think 
of  that  ? — in  hell !  I’m  lost  for  ever  !  I  have  not  a 
chance !  I  am  damned  already — damned — damned — 
The  end  of  this  sentence  he  actually  shouted  ;  his  ve¬ 
hemence  was  perfectly  terrific;  he  threw  himself  back, 
and  laughed  and  sobbed  hysterically.  I  poured  some 
water  into  a  tea-cup,  and  gave  it  to  him.  After  he  had 
swallowed  it,  I  told  him  if  he  had  any  thing  to  com¬ 
municate,  to  do  so  as  briefly  as  he  could,  and  in  a  man¬ 
ner  as  little  agitating  to  himself  as  possible;  threaten¬ 
ing  at  the  same  time,  though  I  had  no  intention  to  do 
so,  to  leave  him  at  once,  in  case  he  again  gave  way  to 
such  passionate  excitement. 

“  It’s  only  foolishness,”  he  continued  “  for  me  to  try 
to  thank  you  for  coming  to  such  a  villain  as  myself  at 
all;  it’s  no  use  for  me  to  wish  good  to  you ;  for  such 
as  I  have  no  blessings  to  give.” 

I  told  him  that  I  had  but  done  my  duty,  and  urged 
him  to  proceed  to  the  matter  which  weighed  upon  his 
mind  :  he  then  spoke  nearly  as  follows  : — 

“  I  came  in  drunk  on  Friday  night  last,  and  got  to  my 


195 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 

bed  here,  I  don’t  remember  how ;  some  time  in  the 
night,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  wakened,  and  feeling  unaisy 
in  myself,  I  got  up  out  of  the  bed.  I  wanted  the  fresh 
air,  but  I  would  not  make  a  noise  to  open  the  window, 
for  fear  I’d  waken  the  crathurs.  It  was  very  dark,  and 
throublesome  to  find  the  door ;  but  at  last  I  did  get  it, 
and  I  groped  my  way  out,  and  went  down  as  aisy  as  I 
could.  I  felt  quite  sober,  and  I  counted  the  steps  one 
after  another,  as  I  was  going  down,  that  I  might  not 
stumble  at  the  bottom.  When  I  came  to  the  first  land¬ 
ing-place — God  be  about  us  always !  the  floor  of  it  sunk 
under  me,  and  I  went  down,  down,  down,  till  the 
senses  almost  left  me.  I  do  not  know  how  long  I  was 
falling,  but  it  seemed  to  me  a  great  while.  When  I 
came  rightly  to  myself  at  last,  I  was  sitting  at  a  great 
table  near  the  top  of  it ;  and  I  could  not  see  the  end 
of  it,  if  it  had  any,  it  was  so  far  off ;  and  there  were 
men  beyond  reckoning  sitting  down,  all  along  by  it, 
at  each  side,  as  far  as  I  could  see  at  all.  I  did  not  know 
at  first  what  it  was  in  the  open  air ;  but  there  was  a 
close  smothering  feel  in  it,  that  was  not  natural,  and 
there  was  a  kind  of  light  that  my  eyesight  never  saw 
before,  red  and  unsteady,  and  I  did  not  see  for  a  long 
time  where  it  was  coming  from,  until  I  looked  'straight 
up,  and  then  I  saw  that  it  came  from  great  balls  of 
blood-coloured  fire,  that  were  rolling  high  over  head, 
with  a  sort  of  rushing,  trembling  sound,  and  I  per¬ 
ceived  that  they  shone  on  the  ribs  of  a  great  roof  of 
rock  that  was  arched  overhead,  instead  of  the  sky. 
When  I  seen  this,  scarce  knowing  what  I  did,  I  got 

up,  and  I  said,  ‘  I  have  no  right  to  be  here ;  I  must 

14 


196 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM 

# 

go ;’  and  the  man  that  was  sitting  at  my  left  hand  only 
smiled,  and  said,  ‘  sit  down  again  ;  you  can  never  leave 
this  place ;’  and  his  voice  was  weaker  than  any  child’s 
voice  I  ever  heard,  and  when  he  was  done  speaking 
he  smiled  again.  Then  I  spoke  out  very  loud  and 
bold,  and  I  said,  £  In  the  name  of  God  let  me  out  of 
this  bad  place.’  And  there  was  a  great  man,  that  I  did 
not  see  before,  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table  that  I  was 
near,  and  he  was  taller  than  twelve  men,  and  his  face 
was  very  proud  and  terrible  to  look  at,  and  he  stood 
up  and  stretched  out  his  hand  before  him ;  and  w^hen 
he  stood  up  all  that  were  there,  great  and  small,  bowed 
down  with  a  sighing  sound,  and  a  dread  came  on  my 
heart,  and  he  looked  at  me,  and  I  could  not  speak.  I 
felt  I  was  his  own  to  do  what  he  liked  with,  for  I 
knew  at  once  who  he  was ;  and  he  said,  ‘  if  you  pro¬ 
mise  to  return  you  may  depart  for  a  season and  the 
voice  he  spoke  with  was  terrible  and  mournful,  and 
the  echoes  of  it  went  rolling  and  swelling  down  the 
endless  cave,  and  mixing  with  the  trembling  of  the  fire 
over  head ;  so  that  when  he  sat  down,  there  was  a  sound 
after  him,  all  through  the  place,  like  the  roaring  of  a 
furnace,  and  I  said,  with  all  the  strength  I  had,  ‘  I  pro¬ 
mise  to  come  back;  in  God’s  name  let  me  go;’  and 
with  that  I  lost  the  sight  and  the  hearing  of  all  that 
vras  there ;  and  when  my  senses  came  to  me  again,  I 
was  sitting  in  the  bed  with  the  blood  all  over  me,  and 
you  and  the  rest  praying  around  the  room.”  Here  he 
paused  and  wiped  away  the  chill  drops  of  horror  which 
hung  upon  his  forehead. 

I  remained  silent  for  sbme  moments.  The  vision 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


197 


which  he  had  just  described  struck  my  imagination 
not  a  little ;  for  this  was  long  before  Yathek  and  the 
“  Hall  of  Ebles”  had  delighted  the  world  ;  and  the  de¬ 
scription  which  he  gave  had,  as  I  received  it,  all  the 
attractions  of  novelty,  beside  the  impressiveness  which 
always  belongs  to  the  narration  of  an  eye-witness,  whe¬ 
ther  in  the  body  or  in  the  spirit,  of  the  scenes  which 
he  describes.  There  was  something,  too,  in  the  stern 
horror  with  which  the  man  related' these  things,  and  in 
the  incongruity  of  his  description  with  the  vulgarly 
received  notions  of  the  great  place  of  punishment,  and 
of  its  presiding  spirit,  which  struck  my  mind  with 
awe,  almost  with  fear. — At  length  he  said,  with  an  ex¬ 
pression  of  horrible,  imploring  earnestness,  which  I 
shall  never  forget,  “Well,  sir,  is  there  any  hope;  is 
there  any  chance  at  all  ?  or,  is  my  soul  pledged  and 
promised  away  for  ever?  is  it  gone  out  of  my  power? 
must  I  go  back  to  the  place  ?” 

In  answering  him  I  had  no  easy  task  to  perform ;  for 
however  clear  might  be  my  internal  conviction  of  the 
groundlessness  of  his  fears,  and  however  strong  my 
skepticism  respecting  the  reality  of  what  he  had  de¬ 
scribed,  I  nevertheless  felt  that  his  impression  to  the 
contrary,  and  his  humility  and  terror  resulting  from 
it,  might  be  made  available  as  no  mean  engines  in  the 
work  of  his  conversion  from  profligacy,  and  of  his  re¬ 
storation  to  decent  habits,  and  to  religious  feeling.  I 
therefore  told  him  that  he  was  to  regard  his  dream 
rather  in  the  light  of  a  warning  than  in  that  of  a  pro¬ 
phecy  ;  that  our  salvation  depended  not  upon  the  word 
or  deed  of  a  moment,  but  upon  the  habits  of  a  life ;  that, 


198 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 

in  fine,  if  he  at  once  discarded  his  idle  companions  and 
evil  habits,  and  firmly  adhered  to  a  sober,  industrious, 
and  religious  course  of  life,  the  powers  of  darkness 
might  claim  his  soul  in  vain ;  for  that  there  were 
higher  and  firmer  pledges  than  human  tongue  could 
utter,  which  promised  salvation  to  him  who  should 
repent  and  lead  a  new  life. 

I  left  him  much  comforted,  and  with  a  promise  to 
return  upon  the  next  day.  I  did  so,  and  found  him 
much  more  cheerful,  and  without  any  remains  of  the 
dogged  sullenness  which  I  suppose  had  arisen  from 
his  despair.  His  promises  of  amendment  were  given 
in  that  tone  of  deliberate  earnestness  which  belongs 
to  deep  and  solemn  determination ;  and  it  was  with 
no  small  delight  that  I  observed,  after  repeated  visits, 
that  his  good  resolutions,  so  far  from  failing,  did  but 
gather  strength  by  time ;  and  when  I  saw  that  man 
shake  off  the  idle  and  debauched  companions,  whose 
society  had  for  years  formed  alike  his  amusement  and 
his  ruin,  and  revive  his  long  discarded  habits  of  in¬ 
dustry  and  sobriety,  I  said  within  myself,  “  there  is 
something  more  in  all  this  than  the  operation  of  an  idle 
dream.” 

One  day,  some  time  after  his  perfect  restoration 
to  health,  I  was  surprised  on  ascending  the  stairs  for 
the  purpose  of  visiting  this  man,  to  find  him  busily 
employed  in  nailing  down  some  planks  upon  the  land¬ 
ing-place  through  which,  at  the  commencement  of  his 
mysterious  vision,  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  sunk. 
I  perceived  at  once  that  he  was  strengthening  the  floor 
with  a  view  to  securing  himself  against  such  a  catas- 


THE  DRUNKARDS  DREAM. 


199 


trophe,  and  could  scarcely  forbear  a  smile,  as  I  bid 
“  God  bless  his  work.” 

He  perceived  my  thoughts  I  suppose,  for  he  imme¬ 
diately  said — 

“  I  can  never  pass  over  that  floor  without  trembling. 
I’d  leave  this  house  if  I  could ;  but  I  can’t  find  another 
lodging  in  the  town  so  cheap,  and  I’ll  not  take  a  better 
till  I’ve  paid  off  all  my  debts,  please  God ;  but  I  could 
not  be  aisy  in  my  mind  till  I  made  it  as  safe  as  I  could. 
You’ll  hardly  believe  me,  your  honour,  that  while  I’m 
working,  maybe  a  mile  away,  my  heart  is  in  a  flutter 
the  whole  way  back,  with  the  bare  thoughts  of  the  two 
little  steps  I  have  to  walk  upon  this  bit  of  a  floor.  So 
it’s  no  wonder,  sir,  I’d  thry  to  make  it  sound  and  firm 
with  any  idle  timber  I  have.” 

I  applauded  his  resolution  to  pay  off  his  debts,  and 
the  steadiness  with  which  he  pursued  his  plans  of 
conscientious  economy,  and  passed  on. 

Many  months  elapsed,  and  still  there  appeared  no 
alteration  in  his  resolutions  of  amendment.  He  was  a 
good  workman,  and  with  his  better  habits  he  reco¬ 
vered  his  former  extensive  and  profitable  employment. 
Every  thing  seemed  to  promise  comfort  and  respecta¬ 
bility.  I  have  little  more  to  add,  and  that  shall  be  told 
quickly.  I  had  one  evening  met  Pat  Connell,  as  he 
returned  from  his  work ;  and,  as  usual,  after  a  mutual, 
and,  on  his  side,  respectful  salutation,  I  spoke  a  few 
words  of  encouragement  and  approval.  I  left  him  in¬ 
dustrious,  active,  healthy — when  next  I  saw  him,  not 
three  days  after,  he  was  a  corpse  The  circumstances 
which  marked  the  event  of  his  death,  were  somewhat 


/ 


200 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


strange — I  might  say  fearful.  The  unfortunate  man 
had  accidentally  met  an  early  friend,  just  returned 
after  a  long  absence,  and,  in  a  moment  of  excitement, 
forgetting  every  thing  in  the  warmth  of  his  joy,  he 
yielded  to  his  urgent  invitation  to  accompany  him 
into  a  public  house,  which  lay  close  by  the  spot  where 
the  encounter  had  taken  place.  Connell,  however, 
previously  to  entering  the  room,  had  announced  his 
determination  to  take  nothing  more  than  the  strictest 
temperance  would  warrant.  But,  oh  !  who  can  de¬ 
scribe  the  inveterate  tenacitv  with  which  a  drunkard’s 
habits  cling  to  him  through  life.  He  may  repent — he 
may  reform ;  he  may  look  with  actual  abhorrence 
upon  his  past  profligacy;  but  amid  all  this  reforma¬ 
tion  and  compunction,  who  can  tell  the  moment  in 
which  the  base  and  ruinous  propensity  may  not  re¬ 
cur,  triumphing  over  resolution,  remorse,  shame,  every 
thing,  and  prostrating  its  victim  once  more  in  all  that 
is  destructive  and  revolting  in  that  fatal  vice. 

The  wretched  man  left  the  place  in  a  state  of  utter 
intoxication.  He  was  brought  home  nearly  insensible, 
and  placed  in  his  bed,  where  he  lay  in  the  deep,  calm 
lethargy  of  drunkenness.  The -younger  part  of  the 
family  retired  to  rest  much  after  their  usual  hour;  but 
the  poor  wife  remained  up,  sitting  by  the  fire,  too 
much  grieved  and  shocked  at  the  recurrence  of  what 
she  had  so  little  expected,  to  settle  to  rest;  fatigue, 
however,  at  length  overcame  her,  and  she  sunk  gradu¬ 
ally  into  an  uneasy  slumber.  She  could  not  tell  how 
long  she  had  remained  in  this  state,  when  she  awoke, 
and  immediately  on  opening  her  eyes,  she  perceived 


THE  DRUNKARD  AND  PAT  CONNELL  AT  THE  TAVERN. 


(201) 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


203 


by  the  faint  red  light  of  the  smouldering  turf-embers, 
two  persons,  one  of  whom  she  recognized  as  her  hus¬ 
band,  noiselessly  gliding  out  of  the  room. 

“Pat,  darling,  where  are  you  going?”  said  she, 
There  was  no  answer — the  door  closed  after  them ; 
but  in  a  moment  she  was  startled  and  terrified  by  a 
loud  and  heavy  crash,  as  if  some  ponderous  body  had 
been  hurled  down  the  stairs.  Much  alarmed,  she 
started  up,  and  going  to  the  head  of  the  staircase,  she 
called  repeatedly  upon  her  husband,  but  in  vain.  She 
returned  to  the  room,  and  with  the  assistance  of  her 
daughter,  whom  I  had  occasion  to  mention  before,  she 
succeeded  in  finding  and  lighting  a  candle,  with  which 
she  hurried  again  to  the  head  of  the  staircase.  At  the 
bottom  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a  bundle  of  clothes, 
heaped  together,  motionless,  lifeless — it  was  her  hus¬ 
band.  In  going  down  the  stairs,  for  what  purpose 
can  never  now  be  known,  he  had  fallen,  helplessly  and 
violently,  to  the  bottom,  and  coming  head  foremost, 
the  spine  at  the  neck  had  been  dislocated  by  the  shock, 
and  instant  death  must  have  ensued.  The  body  lay 
upon  that  landing-place  to  which  his  dream  had  refer¬ 
red.  It  is  scarcely  w’orth  endeavouring  to  clear  up  a 
single  point  in  a  narrative  where  all  is  mystery ;  yet 
I  could  not  help  suspecting  that  the  second  figure 
which  had  been  seen  in  the  room  by  Connell’s  wife 
on  the  night  of  his  death,  might  have  been  no  other 
than  his  own  shadow.  I  suggested  this  solution  of  the 
difficulty;  but  she  told  me  that  the  unknown  person 
had  been  considerably  in  advance  of  the  other,  and  on 
reaching  the  door,  had  turned  back,  as  if  to  communi- 


204 


* 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DREAM. 


cate  something  to  his  companion — it  was  then  a  mys¬ 
tery.  Was  the  dream  verified? — whither  had  the  dis¬ 
embodied  spirit  sped  ? — who  can  say  ?  We  know  not. 
But  I  left  the  house  of  death  that  day  in  a  state  of 
horror  which  I  could  not  describe.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  I  was  scarce  awake.  I  heard  and  saw  every 
thing  as  if  under  the  spell  of  a  nightmare.  The  coin¬ 
cidence  was  terrible. 


THE  EAFTMAN’S  OATH. 

* 


By  D.  Strock,  Jr. 


“Well,  I’ll  never  drink  another  drop  of  liquor 
while  on  the  water.” 

These  words,  uttered  by  a  youth  of  not  more  than 
twenty-three,  yet  apparently  dissolute  and  weather- 

(205) 


206 


THE  RAFT  MAN’S  OATH. 


beaten,  seemed  to  accord  ill  with  the  place  and  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  uttered.  He 
was  in  a  tavern,  surrounded  by  companions  hardened 
as  himself,  and  within  hearing  of  the  ringing  of 
glasses,  which  the  landlord  was  circulating  merrily. 
Any  one  who  has.  been  in  a  tavern  among  the  hills 
of  Vermont,  must  have  been  struck  with  the  fact  that 
such  an  establishment  occupies  a  far  more  important 
position  among  the  inhabitants  of  the  Green  state,  than 
taverns  do  in  our  large  cities.  There,  after  their  daily 
toil,  the  workmen  collect  to  discuss  matters  of  busi¬ 
ness,  or  general  news.  There,  politicians  meet  to  cal¬ 
culate  chances;  and  a  motley  group  of  travellers,  far¬ 
mers,  sportsmen,  “  western  men,”  “  Bosting  men,” 
of  both  sexes,  all  classes,  and  every  shade  of  character 
below  mediocrity,  gather  there  to  sing,  carouse,  and 
get  drunk.  At  such  times,  too,  like  vigilant  soldiers 
in  a  hard  campaign,  they  criticise  the  movements  of 
their  great  enemies,  the  temperance  men,  and  con 
over  with  doleful  voice  and  features,  the  names  of 
those  unfortunate  victims  who,  up  to  the  latest  ac¬ 
counts  from  “town,”  have  been  “caught.” 

When  all  these  circumstances  are  kept  in  view,  it 
will  not  appear  strange  that  the  man  who,  in  a  Ver¬ 
mont  bar-room,  could  muster  sufficient  nerve  to  utter 
the  sentence  with  which  our  sketch  opens,  would 
soon  find  himself  in  a  most  ridiculous  situation.  Men 
stared  at  him ;  beings,  who  scarcely  retained  even  the 
form  of  women,  leered  at  him  through  their  half  shut 
eyes ;  the  landlord  stopped  short  in  the  act  of  filling 
a  glass,  and,  holding  the  decanter  horizontally  in  his 


THE  RAFT  MAN’S  OATH. 


207 


hand,  peeped  through  his  spectacles  towards  the 
quarter  from  whence  the  voice  proceeded.  In  less 
than  five  minutes  one  half  of  the  company  were 
around  the  young  man,  jesting,  mocking,  and  laughing. 

“I  say,”  he  repeated  slowly,  “I’ll  never  again 
drink  liquor  while  on  the  water.” 

“Ha!  ha!  ha!”  shouted  a  miserable  being  near 
him.  “Tom’s  turned  a  temperance  man!  ha!  ha! 
ha!  Stick  to  it,  Tom!” 

“  You  ain’t  going  to  sign  the  paper,  are  you,  Tom  ?” 
whined  a  loafer,  who  sat  in  the  window-sill,  with  his 
knees  as  high  as  his  head,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

“  I  don’t  believe  a  word  of  it,”  said  a  third.  “  The 
first  wind  would  keel  him  over  high  and  dry,  unless 
he  carries  ballast.  He’ll  drown  like  a  land  rat  in  the 
first  storm.  Else  he’ll  be  thrown  in  a  galloping  de¬ 
cline.  Won’t  he  landlord  ?” 

“  No  doubt  of  it.” 

There  was  some  laughing. 

“  You  may  laugh  as  much  as  you  please,”  said  the 
young  man;  “but  I’ll  do  as  I  have  said.  I  have  just 
been  told  that  Jack  Hall  was  drowned  last  night  be¬ 
fore  his  raft  was  three  miles  from  the  place  where  he 
started.” 

“Jack  Hall  drowned  !”  shrieked  a  young  woman, 
clothed  in  rags,  and  with  fiery,  bloated  eyes.  “  Oh  ! 
poor  Jack  is  not  dead  !”  On  receiving  repeated  as¬ 
surance,  she  rushed  with  wild  cries  from  the  tavern, 
followed  by  two  or  three  others,  men  and  women. 

“There,”  said  the  first  speaker,  “is  some  more  of 


208 


THE  RAFTMAN’S  OATH. 


rum’s  doings.  Poor  Lucy !  Once  she  was  a  nice 
girl — she  loved  her  cousin,  too.  When  I  think  of  it, 
I  almost  resolve  never  to  taste  liquor  again.  I  wish 
I  couhhkeep  such  a  resolution.” 

"'Some  chance  for  a  temperance  lecture,  I  see,”  said 
Ahe  landlord. 

-  -‘jf  am  not  going  to  lecture,”  Tom  replied.  “  But 
I’ll  tell  vou  what  it  is,  landlord,  some  of  us  here  have 
not  yet  forgotten  what  Jack  was  before  he  fell  into 
your  clutches.  A  finer  young  man  never  climbed  the 
Green  mountains.  I  went  to  school  with  him,  poor 
fellow,  and  we  struggled  hard  with  each  other  for  the 
head  of  the  class.  But  there  was  no  quarrelling.  He 
saved  my  sister,  too,  once,  when  our  boat  struck  a 
snag  in  the  Onion  river.  I  begged  him  not  to  go  last 
night,  for  I  saw  he  was  drunk,  and  something  seemed 
to  tell  me,  that  he  would  not  return  safe.  Perhaps  you 
can  tell  us,  landlord,  who  sold  him  the  liquor.” 

There  was  a  bitterness  in  Tom’s  expression  which 
roused  the  minute  quantity  of  shame  which  still  ho¬ 
vered  about  the  rumseller’s  character.  It  was  per¬ 
ceptible  in  his  countenance  as  he  said — 

“  Well,  I’m  sorry  Jack  was  drowned,  for  he  was  a 
good  customer.  But  every  man  is  free  in  this  coun¬ 
try  •  and  if  he  would  get  drunk,  who’s  to  blame  ? 
Pretty  times  we’d  have  if  we  wouldn’t  sell  liquor  ex¬ 
cept  to  the  temperance  folks.” 

“  If  every  man  is  free,  I’ll  be  free  too,”  replied  Tom ; 
"  and  remember,  landlord,  you  finger  no  more  coin  of 
mine.  '  For  I  perceive  now,  thaHf  any  of  us  would 


1 


THE  RAFTMA.n’s  OATH. 


209 


meet  with  sadden  death,  you  would  care  no  more  foi 
it  than  you  do  for  poor  Jack's  death.” 

“  That’s  a  fact,”  said  a  woman,  who  sat  on  a  Crazy 
box,  with,  her  back  against  the  wall.  “  When' Washy 
died,  poor  soul,  with  the  rheumatiz,  who  should  cbmo 
next  day  for  his  bill,  but  Mr.  Landlord.  It  made  my '  % 
heart  ache,  though  I  said  nothing.  Washy  was  a 
good  husband,  but  he  would  drink.  I  wish  I  could 
swear  off.”  *. 

,  •  ,  ■  A/,-.  ■  ,  ’Vv,*,.  . 

“  Hold  your  tongue,  old  woman,”  said  the  landlord, 
angrily.  “You  are  never  done  crying  about  that; 
drunken  loafer.” 

“  I  suppose  it’s  a  free  country,  landlord,”  said  Tom, 
in  a  tone  of  bitter  irony. 

“Yes,  it  is  a  free  country;  and  now  I’ll  speak,” 
said  a  man  who  had  hitherto  been  silent.  He  rose  to 
his  full  height,  and  strode  towards  Tom.  “Young 
man,”  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  deep  earnestness,  “stick 
to  your  resolution.” 

“  I  will  stick  to  it,”  replied  Tom. 

“  Pledge  me  your  hand.” 

Tom  gave  his  hand.  r 

“  Swear  that  you  will  stick  to  it.” 

“I  do  swear.”  * 

“  That  you  will  never  break  it.” 

“  I  never  will,”  said  Tom,  in  a  husky  voice. 

The  landlord  muttered  something  about  fools. 

“Landlord,”  said  the  man,  turning  suddenly,  “I 
have  a  few  words  for  your  ear.” 

“  I  don’t  want  to  hear  them,”  growled  the  landlord.  -  , 

“  But  you  shall  hear  them,”  replied  the  other. 


•1  *  .”  ' 


•fr 


■■  r . 


•  »  "  'i.  ...-i,  i'  , 

,  ‘v  l  ,>  ■ 


.  *  .  v  *  •  *«*!«.«,  Vi.'  -  ^  v  •  :  *  ' 


,  .  .  V  •  HU,  •  J 

'  -wy •  ■ 


210 


THE  RAFTMAN’S  OATH. 


*  For  ten  years  I  have  been  a  drunkard,  a  low,  de¬ 
based,  degraded  drunkard.  Once  I  was  a  scholar 
and  a  gentleman  and  could  count  my  wealth  by  thou¬ 
sands.  Look  at  me  to-day  !  all  my  fortune  is  before 
you.  Many  times  I  have  attempted  to  reform,  and 
each  time  failed,  because  I  could  not  stay  from  such 
places  as  you  keep.  To-day  I  struggled  to  abstain 
from  drink,  even  in  the  face  of  temptation,  and  I  suc¬ 
ceeded.  It  is  owing  to  this  young  man,  and  to  your 
unfeeling  conduct.  I  could  reveal  a  tale  about  one 
who  loved  me,  that  would  fill  'every  one  here  with 
horror ;  but  I  wall  not.  But  when  you  think  of  Jack 
Hall,  remember,  that  by  sneering  at  his  death,  you 
lost  at  least  tw7o  customers  to  your  traffic  of  iniquity.” 

Tom  and  his  new  friend^left  the  tavern  together. 

Two  days  after  this  scene,  Tom,  with  his  compa¬ 
nion,  and  three  other  men,  w7as  descending  the  Con¬ 
necticut  on  a  raft.  True  to  his  resolution,  he  had 
drunk  nothing  but  wrater  before  starting.  This  cir¬ 
cumstance  without  a  precedent  in  Tom’s  previous 
career,  excited  no  little  astonishment  and  speculation 
among  his  fellow  raftmen.  Some  thought  he  had 
“sworn  off;”  others,  that  he  had  been  “caught”  by 
the  temperance  men.  There  was  much  whispering 
about  colds,  consumption,  fool-hardiness,  and  the  vir¬ 
tues  of  alcohol.  The  head  raftman  intimated,  with  a 
sneer,  that  wThen  they  reached  the  rapids,  Tom  would 
have  to  be  tied,  to  prevent  his  falling  overboard.  To 
all  this  the  young  man  answered  nothing;  but,  plying 
his  task  industriously,  he  beguiled  the  hours  by  con¬ 
versation  wfith  his  friend,  wrhose  name  wras  Wilson. 


t 


211 


THE  RAFT  MAN’S  OATH. 

Gradually  night  drew  on.  The  air  was  chill  and 
boisterous,  and  the  heavy  raft  rocked  like  a  cradle,  as 
the  waves  dashed  against  its  sides,  or  broke  under  it. 
All  the  men,  except  Tom  and  Wilson,  buttoned  great 
coats  tightly  around  them  :  they  worked  without  coat 
or  jacket.  As  night  advanced,  and  the  moon  sank  in 
the  west,  the  joyous  song  and  conversation,  which  had 
hitherto  relieved  the  dreary  prospect,  ceased,  and  each 
man  gave  his  whole  attention  to  the  management  of 
the  raft.  About  ten  o’clock  the  head  raftman  sat 
down — a  circumstance  which  appeared  to  Tom  most 
ominous.  In  a  few  moments  afterwards  a  loud  roar¬ 
ing  of  water  was  heard. 

“Captain,”  said  Tom,  “are  we  approaching  the 
rapids?” 

Therp  was  no  answer — Tom  repeated  his  question 
with  the  same  result.  Much  alarmed  he  leaped  for¬ 
ward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  raftman’s  shoulder. 
A  ferocious  growl  was  the  reply,  and  the  drunken 
man  fell  heavily  upon  the  raft,  A  glance  showed 
Tom  that  the  steersman  was  in  the  same  situation. 
The  noise  grew  louder;  and  now,  the  young  man 
became  conscious  of  their  perilous  condition.  The 
raft  was  driving  headlong  before  the  tide,  the  rapids 
were  close  at  hand,  and  two  of  the  men  already 
useless. 

“For  heaven’s  sake,  Wilson,”  he  exclaimed,  “lay. 
hold  of  the  helm,  and  steer  to  shore.” 

Wilson  jammed  the  helm  completely  round,  so  that 
the  heavy  pile  lay  with  its  side  against  the  tide.  One 

of  the  men  was  still  able  to  row.  Tom  called  to  him 

15 


i 


212  THE  RAFTMAN’S  OATH. 

» 

to  work  for  his  life;  and  dragging  the  captain  to  the 
middle  of  the  raft,  he  rowed  with  vigorous  arm,  to 
reach  the  shore.  But  the  helm,  through  bad  manage¬ 
ment,  had  been  damaged ;  so  that  instead  of  approach¬ 
ing  the  land,  the  raft,  drifted  rapidly  towards  a  pile 
of  rocks.  Tom  shuddered,  as  he  saw,  through  the 
darkness,  the  white  foam  boiling  over  the  hidden  reef. 
The  next  moment  the  spray  dashed  over  him 

“Turn  from  shore,”  he  shouted. 

Wilson  jammed  the  helm  with  a  force  that  made 
the  heavy  logs  start.  It  broke  short  in  his  hand. 
There  was  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  Seizing  one  end 
of  his  pole,  Tom  planted  the  other  against  the  rocky 
ledge,  and  pushed  with  all  his  might  from  shore.  His 
two  companions  did  the  same;  and  by  their  united 
efforts,  the  huge  mass  was  swung  round  towards  the 
current.  But  as  it  passed  rapidly  down  the  stream, 
a  jutting  rock  struck  the  end  on  which  Tom  and  the 
captain  were,  and  severed  it  from  the  main  part.  The 
waves  rushed  through  every  part,  tearing  the  logs 
apart,  and  hurrying  them  down  the  tide.  A  wild 
shriek  arose  from  Wilson  and  his  companions;  but 
with  the  promptitude,  learned  only  amid  dangers  like 
this,  Tom  sprang  from  the  ruined  mass,  and  lighted 
upon  the  raft  as  it  swept  by.  There  was  no  time  for 
congratulation.  Their  frail  bark  sprung  round  and 
round,  and,  meeting  with  a  second  reef,  was  shattered 
and  driven  against  the  shore.  Fortunately  it  here 
became  jammed  between  some  rocks,  and  remained 
immovable.  Seizing  the  drunken  steersman,  the  three 
men  clambered  to  the  land,  and  took  refuge  under 


THE  RAFT  MAN’S  OATH. 


213 


some  trees.  Though  cold,  wet,  and  hungry,  they 
soon  fell  asleep  overpowered  by  weariness. 

The  sun  had  risen  before  they  awoke.  In  each 
face,  thankfulness  for  their  escape  was  mingled  with 
sorrow.  None  inquired  for  the  head  steersman;  for 
he  had  been  seen  sweeping  down  the  waves  which 
had  broken  the  raft.  They  spent  the  day  at  a  neigh¬ 
bouring  village ;  and,  in  the  afternoon,  set  out  for  their 
homes.  Tom  and  Wilson  travelled  together;  and 
their  sad  story  revived  in  the  minds  of  many  the 
words  which  the  young  man  had  spoken  when  he 
heard  about  the  death  of  Jack  Hall.  At  Tom’s  house, 
they  renewed  the  oath  which  they  had  sworn  before 
setting  out,  and  added  to  it  another — to  abstain  for 
ever  from  all  intoxicating  drinks.  It  is  needless  t:) 
remark  that  both  of  them  have  kept  it  to  the  present 
time 


I 


ELLEN  MURPHY. 


I 


IT’S  ONLY  A  DROP. 


Prom  Chambers'  Edinburgh  Journal. 


It  was  a  cold  winter’s  night,  and  though  the  cot¬ 
tage  where  Ellen  and  Michael,  the  two  surviving 
children  of  old  Ben  Murphy  lived,  was  always  neat 
and  comfortable,  still  there  was  a  cloud  over  the  brow 

(214) 


it’s  only  a  drop.  215 

of  both  brother  and  sister,  as  they  sat  before  the  cheer¬ 
ful  fire.  It  had  obviously  been  spread  not  by  anger, 
but  by  sorrow.  The  silence  had  continued  long, 
though  it  was  not  bitter.  At  last,  Michael  drew  away 
from  his  sister’s  eyes,  the  checked  apron  she  had  ap¬ 
plied  to  them,  and  taking  her  hand  affectionately 
within  his  own,  said,  “  It  isn’t  for  my  own  sake,  Ellen, 
though,  the  Lord  knows,  I  shall  be  lonesome  enough 
the  long  winter  nights,  and  the  long  summer  days, 
without  your  wise  saying,  and  your  sweet  song,  and 
your  merry  laugh,  that  I  can  so  well  remember — ay, 
since  the  time  when  our  poor  mother  used  to  seat  us 
on  the  new  rick,  and  then,  in  the  innocent  pride  of 
her  heart,  call  father  to  look  at  us,  and  preach  to  us 
against  being  conceited,  at  the  very  time  she  was  mak¬ 
ing  us  proud  as  peacocks  by  calling  us  her  blossoms  of 
beauty,  and  her  heart’s  blood,  and  her  king  and  queen.” 

“  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  make  her  bed  in  hea- 
ven,  now  and  for  evermore,  amen,”  said  Ellen,  at  the 
same  time  drawing  out  her  beads,  and  repeating  an 
Ave  with  inconceivable  rapidity.  “  Ah,  Mike,”  she 
added,  “that  was  the  mother,  and  the  father  too,  full 
of  grace  and  godliness.” 

“  True  for  ye,  Ellen,  but  thafs  not  what  I’m  aftlier 
nowr,  as  you  well  know,  you  blushing  little  rogue  of 
the  world ;  and  sorra  a  word  I’ll  say  against  it  in  the 
end,  though  it’s  lonesome  I’ll  be  on  my  own  hearth¬ 
stone,  with  no  one  to  keep  me  company  but  the  ould 
black  cat,  that  can’t  see,  let  alone  hear,  the  craythur !” 

“  Now,”  said  Ellen,  wiping  her  eyes,  and  smiling 
her  own  bright  smile,  “  lave  off ;  ye’re  just  like  all  the 


i 


216 


it's  only  a  drop. 


men,  purtending  to  one  thing  when  they  mane  an¬ 
other  ;  there’s  a  dale  of  desate  about  them — all — every 
one  of  them — and  so  my  mother  often  said.  Now, 
you’d  better  have  done,  or  maybe  I’ll  say  something 
that  will  bring,  if  not  the  colour  to  your  brown  cheek, 
a  dale  more  warmth  to  yer  warm  heart,  than  would 
be  convanient,  just  by  the  mention  of  one  Mary — 
Mary  !  what  a  purty  name  Mary  it  is,  isn’t  it? — its  a 
common  name  too,  and  yet  you  like  it  none  the  worse 
for  that.  Do  you  mind  the  ould  rhyme  ? — 

‘  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary  !’ 

Well,  I’m  not  going  to  say  she  is  contrary — I’m  sure 
she’s  any  thing  but  that  to  you,  any  way,  brother 
Mike.  Can’t  you  sit  still,  and  don’t  be  pulling  the 
hairs  out  of  Pusheen  cat’s  tail,  it  isn’t  many  there’s  in 
it;  and  I’d  thank  you  not  to  unravel  the  beautiful 
English  cotton  stocking  I’m  knitting ;  lave  off  your 
tricks,  or  I’ll  make  common  talk  of  it,  I  will,  and  be 
more  than  even  with  you,  my  tine  fellow !  Indeed, 
poor  ould  Pusheen,”  she  continued,  addressing  the 
cat  with  great  gravity,  “  never  heed  what  he  says  to 
you  ;  he  has  no  notion  to  make  ijou  either  head  or  tail 
to  the  house,  not  he ;  he  won’t  let  you  be  without  a 
misthress  to  give  ye  your  sup  of  milk,  or  yer  bit  of 
sop;  he  won’t  let  you  be  lonesome,  my  poor  puss; 
he’s  glad  enough  to  swap  an  Ellen  for  a  Mary,  so  he 
is ;  but  that’s  a  sacret,  avourneen  ;  don’t  tell  it  to  any 
one.” 

“Any  thing  for  your  happiness,”  replied  the  bro¬ 
ther,  somewhat  sulkily;  “but  your  bachelor  has  a 


it’s  only  a  drop. 


217 


worse  fault  than  ever  I  had,  notwithstanding  all  the 
lecturing  you  kept  on  to  me;  he  has  a  turn  for  the 
drop,  Ellen,  you  know  he  has.” 

“  How  spitefully  you  said  that !”  replied  Ellen ; 
“  and  it  isn’t  generous  to  spake  of  it  when  he’s  not 
here  to  defend  himself” 

“  You’ll  not  let  a  word  go  against  him,”  said  Mi¬ 
chael. 

“  No,”  she  said,  “  I  will  never  let  ill  be  spoken  of 
an  absent  friend.  I  know  he  has  a  turn  for  the  drop, 
but  I’ll  cure  him.” 

“  After  he  is  married,”  observed  Michael,  not  very 
good  natu redly. 

“  No,”  she  answered,  “  before.  I  think  a  girl’s  chance 
of  happiness  is  not  worth  much  who  trusts  to  after  mar¬ 
riage  reformation.  I  wont.  Didn’t  I  reform  you,  Mike, 
of  the  shockin’  habit  you  had,  of  putting  every  thing 
off  to  the  last?  And  after  reforming  a  brother,  who 
knows  what  I  may  do  with  a  lover  ?  Do  you  think 
that  Larry’s  heart  is  harder  than  yours ,  Mike?  Look 
what  fine  vegetables  we  have  in  our  garden  now,  all 
planted  by  your  own  hand,  when  you  come  home 
from  work — planted  during  the  very  time  wdiich  you 
used  to  spend  in  leaning  against  the  door  cheek,  or 
smoking  your  pipe,  or  sleeping  over  the  fire.  Look 
at  the  money  you  got  from  the  agricultural  society.” 

“  That’s  yours,  Ellen,”  said  the  generous-hearted 
Mike.  I’ll  never  touch  a  penny  of  it;  but  for  you 
I  never  should  have  had  it.  I’ll  never  touch  it.” 

“  You  never  shall,”  she  answered.  “I’ve  laid  it 
every  penny  out;  so  that  when  the  young  bride  comes 


218 


it’s  only  a  drop. 


home,  she’ll  have  such  a  house  of  comforts  as  are  not 
to  be  found  in  the  parish — white  table-cloths  for  Sun¬ 
day,  a  little  store  of  tay  and  sugar,  soap,  candles, 
starch,  every  thing  good,  and  plenty  of  it.” 

“My  own  dear,  generous  sister!”  exclaimed  the 
young  man. 

“  I  shall  ever  be  your  sister,”  she  replied,  “  and 
hers  too.  She’s  a  good  colleen,  and  worthy  my  own 
Mike ;  and  that’s  more  than  I  would  say  to  ere  an¬ 
other  in  the  parish.  I  wasn’t  in  earnest  when  I  said 
jou’d  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  me ;  so  put  the  pouch, 
every  bit  of  it  off  yer  handsome  face.  And  hush  ! — 
whist!  will  ye?  there’s  the  sound  of  Larry’s  foot¬ 
steps  in  the  bawn — hand  me  the  needles,  Mike.” 

She  braided  back  her  hair  with  both  hands,  ar¬ 
ranged  the  red  ribbon,  that  confined  its  luxuriance,  in 
the  little  glass  that  hung  upon  the  dresser,  and,  after 
composing  her  arch  laughing  features  into  an  expres¬ 
sion  of  great  gravity,  sat  down,  and  applied  herself 
with  singular  industry  to  take  up  the  stitches  her 
brother  had  dropped,  and  put  on  a  look  of  right 
maidenly  astonishment  when  the  door  opened,  and 
Larry’s  good-humoured  face  entered,  with  the  saluta¬ 
tion  of  “  God  save  all  here  !”  He  popped  his  head  in 
first,  and  after  gazing  around,  presented  his  goodly 
person  to  their  view ;  and  a  pleasant  view  it  was,  for 
he  was  of  genuine  Irish  bearing  and  beauty — frank, 
and  manly,  and  fearless  looking.  Ellen,  the  wicked 
one,  looked  up  with  well  feigned  astonishment,  and 
exclaimed,  “Oh,  Larry,  is  it  you?  and  who  would 
have  thought  of  seeing  you  this  blessed  night?  Ye’re 


219 


it’s  only  a  drop. 

lucky — just  in  time  for  a  bit  of  a  supper  afther  your 
walk  across  the  moor.  I  cannot  think  what  in  the 
world  makes  you  walk  over  that  moor  so  often  ;  you’ll 
get  wet  feet,  and  yer  mother  ’ill  be  forced  to  nurse 
you.  Of  all  the  walks  in  the  county,  the  walk  across 
that  moor’s  the  dreariest,  and  yet  ye’re  always  going 
it!  I  wonder  you  haven’t  better  sense;  ye’re  not 
such  a  chicken  now.” 

“Well,”  interrupted  Mike,  “it’s  the  women  that 
bates  the  world  for  desaving.  Sure  she  heard  yer 
step  when  nobody  else  could ;  it’s  echo  struck  on 
her  heart,  Larry, — let  her  deny  it.  She’ll  make  a 
shove  off  if  she  can;  she’ll  twist  you,  and  twirl  you, 
and  turn  you  about,  so  that  you  wont  know  whether 
it’s  on  your  head  or  your  heels  ye’re  standing.  She’ll 
tossicate  yer  brains  in  no  time,  and  be  as  composed 
herself  as  the  dove  on  her  nest  in  a  storm.  But  ask 
her,  Larry,  the  straitforward  question,  whether  she 
heard  you  or  not.  She’ll  tell  no  lie — she  never  does.” 

Ellen  shook  her  head  at  her  brother,  and  laughed, 
and  immediately  after  the  happy  trio  sat  down  to  a 
cheerful  supper. 

Larry  was  a  good  tradesman,  blythe,  and  “  well  to 
do”  in  the  world;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  one 
great  fault — an  inclination  to  take  “  the  least  taste  in 
life  more”  when  he  had  already  taken  quite  enough — 
there  could  not  have  been  found  a  better  match  for 
good,  excellent  Ellen  Murphy,  in  the  whole  kingdom 
of  Ireland.  When  supper  was  finished,  the  everlast¬ 
ing  whisky-bottle  was  produced,  and  Ellen  resumed 
her  knitting.  After  a  time,  Larry  pressed  his  suit  to 


220 


ITS  ONLY  A  DROP. 


Michael  for  the  industrious  hand  of  his  sister,  think¬ 
ing,  doubtless,  with  the  natural  self-conceit  of  all  man- 
kind,  that  he  was  perfectly  secure  with  Ellen ;  but 
though  Ellen  loved,  like  all  my  fair  countrywomen, 
well ,  she  loved,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  zmlike  the  generality 
of  my  fair  countrywomen,  wisely,  and  reminded  her 
lover  that  she  had  seen  him  intoxicated  at  the  last  fair 
of  Rathcoolin. 

“  Dear  Ellen,”  he  exclaimed,  “  it  was  ‘  only  a  drop/ 
the  least  taste  in  life  that  overcame  me.  It  overtook 
me  unknowst,  quite  against  my  will.” 

“  Who  poured  it  down  yer  throat,  Larry  ?” 

“Who  poured  it  down  my  throat  is  it?  why,  my¬ 
self,  to  be  sure ;  but  are  you  going  to  put  me  to  a 
three  months’  penance  for  that?” 

“  Larry,  will  you  listen  to  me,  and  remember  that 
the  man  I  marry  must  be  converted  before  we  stand 
before  the  priest.  I  have  no  faith  whatever  in  con¬ 
versions  after.” - 

“  Oh,  Ellen  !”  interrupted  her  lover 

“It’s  no  use  oh  Ellening  me,”  she  answered 
quickly ;  “  I  have  made  my  resolution,  and  I’ll  stick 
to  it.” 

“  She’s  as  obstinate  as  ten  women,”  said  her  brother. 
“There’s  no  use  in  attempting  to  contradict  her; 
she  always  has  had  her  own  way.” 

“  It’s  very  cruel  of  you,  Ellen,  not  to  listen  to  rea¬ 
son.  I  tell  you,  a  tablespoonful  will  often  upset  me.” 

“  If  you  know  that,  Larry,  why  do  you  take  the 
tablespoonful  ?” 

Larry  could  not  reply  to  this  question.  He  could 


221 


it’s  only  a  drop. 

only  plead  that  the  drop  got  the  better  of  him,  and  the 
temptation ,  and  the  over  comingness  of  the  thing,  and 
it  was  very  hard  to  be  at  him  so  about  a  trifle. 

“  I  can  never  think  a  thing  a  trifle,”  she  observed, 
“  that  makes  you  so  unlike  yourself ;  I  should  wish 
to  respect  you  always,  Larry,  and  in  my  heart  I  be¬ 
lieve  no  woman  ever  could  respect  a  drunkard.  I 
don’t  want  to  make  you  angry ;  God  forbid  you  should 
ever  be  one,  and  I  know  you  are  not  one  yet ;  but  sin 
grows  mighty  strong  upon  us  without  our  knowledge. 
And  no  matter  what  indulgence  leads  to  bad  ;  we’ve 
a  right  to  think  any  thing  that  does  lead  to  it  sinful  in 
prospect,  if  not  at  the  present.” 

“You’d  have  made  a  fine  priest,  Ellen,”  said  the 
young  man,  determined,  if  he  could  not  reason,  to 
laugh  her  out  of  her  resolve. 

cD 

“I  don’t  think,”  she  replied,  archly,  “if  I  was  a 
priest,  that  either  of  you  would  have  liked  to  come  to 
me  to  confession.” 

“  But  Ellen,  dear  Ellen,  sure  it’s  not  in  positive 
downright  earnest  you  are ;  you  can’t  think  of  put¬ 
ting  me  off  on  account  of  that  unlucky  drop,  the  least 
taste  in  life,  I  took  at  the  fair.  You  could  not  find  it 
in  your  heart.  Speak  for  me,  Michael,  speak  for  me. 
But  I  see  it’s  joking  you  are.  Why,  Lent  will  be  on 
us  in  no  time,  and  then  we  must  wait  till  Easter — it’s 
easy  talking.” 

“  Larry,”  interrupted  Ellen,  “do  not  you  talk  your 
self  into  a  passion ;  it  will  do  no  good ;  none  in  the 
world.  I  am  sure  you  love  me,  and  I  confess  before 
my  brother  it  will  be  the  delight  of  my  heart  to  return 


222 


it’s  only  a  drop. 

that  love,  and  make  myself  worthy  of  you,  if  you 
will  only  break  yourself  of  that  one  habit,  which  you 
qualify  to  your  own  undoing  by  fancying,  because  the 
least  taste  in  life  makes  you  what  you  ought  not  to  be, 
that  you  still  take  it.” 

“  I’ll  take  an  oath  against  the  whisky,  if  that  will 
plase  ye,  till  Christmas.” 

“  And  when  Christmas  comes,  get  twice  as  tipsy  as 
ever,  with  joy  to  think  yer  oath  is  out — no?” 

“  I’ll  sware  any  thing  you  plase.” 

“  I  don’t  want  you  to  swrare  at  all ;  there  is  no  use 
in  a  man’s  taking  an  oath  he  is  anxious  to  have  a 
chance  of  breaking.  I  want  your  reason  to  be  con¬ 
vinced.” 

u  My  darling  Ellen  all  the  reason  I  ever  had  in  my 
life  is  convinced.” 

“  Prove  it  by  abstaining  from  taking  even  a  drop, 
even  the  least  drop  in  life,  if  that  drop  can  make  you 
ashamed  to  look  your  poor  Ellen  in  the  face.” 

“  I’ll  give  it  up  altogether.” 

“  I  hope  you  will  one  of  these  days,  from  a  convic¬ 
tion  that  it  is  really  bad  in  every  way ;  but  not  from 
cowardice,  not  because  you  darn’t  trust  yerself.” 

“  Ellen,  I’m  sure  ye’ve  some  English  blood  in  yer 
veins,  you’re  such  a  reasoner.  Irish  women  don’t 
often  throw  a  boy  off  because  of  a  drop ;  if  they  did, 
it’s  not  many  marriage  dues  his  Reverence  would 
have,  winter  or  summer.” 

“  Listen  to  me,  Larry,  and  believe,  that,  though  I 
spake  this  way,  I  regard  you  truly ;  and  if  I  did  not, 
I’d  not  take  the  throuble  to  tell  you  my  mind.” 


“  Like  Mick  Brady’s  wife,  who,  whenever  she 
thrashed  him,  cried  over  the  blows,  and  said  they  were 
all  for  his  good,”  observed  her  brother  slyly. 

“  Nonsense  !” — listen  to  me,  I  say,  and  I’ll  tell  you 
why  I  am  so  resolute. ,  It’s  many  a  long  day  since, 
going  to  school,  I  used  to  meet — Michael  minds  her, 
too,  I’m  sure — an  old  bent  woman ;  they  used  to  call 
her  the  Witch  of  Ballaghton.  Stacy  was,  as  I  have 
said,  very  old,  entirely  withered  and  white  headed, 
bent  nearly  double  with  age,  and  she  used  to  be  ever 
and  always  muddling  about  the  streams  and  ditches, 
gathering  herbs  and  plants,  the  girls  said  to  work 
charms  with;  and  at  first  they  used  to  watch,  rather 
far  off,  and  if  they  had  a  good  chance  of  escaping  her 
tongue  and  the  stones  she  flung  at  them,  they’d  call 


224  it’s  only  a  drop. 

her  an  ill  name  or  two,  and  sometimes,  old  as  she  was, 
she’d  make  a  spring  at  them  sideways  like  a  crab, 
and  howl,  and  hoot,  and  scream,  and  then  they’d  be 
off  like  a  flock  of  pigeons  from  a  hawk,  and  she’d  go 
on  disturbing  the  green  coated  waters  with  her  crooked 
stick,  and  muttering  words  which  none,  if  they  heard, 
could  understand.  Stacy  had  been  a  well-rared  wo¬ 
man,  and  knew  a  dale  more  than  any  of  us;  when 
not  tormented  by  the  children,  she  wras  mighty  well 
spoken,  and  the  gentry  thought  a  dale  more  about  her 
than  she  did  about  them ;  for  she’d  say  there  wasn’t 
one  in  the  country  fit  to  tie  her  shoe,  and  tell  them 
so,  too,  if  they’d  call  her  any  thing  but  Lady  Stacy, 
which  the  rale  gentry  of  the  place  all  humoured  her 
in  ;  but  the  upstarts,  who  think  every  civil  wrord  to 
an  inferior  is  a  pulling  down  of  their  own  dignity, 
would  turn  up  their  noses  as  they  passed  her,  and 
mavbe  she  didn’t  bless  them  for  it. 

“  One  day  Mike  had  gone  home  before  me,  and, 
coming  down  the  back  bohreen,  wdio  should  I  see  4 
moving  along  it  but  Lady  Stacy;  and  on  she  came, 
muttering  and  mumbling  to  herself,  till  she  got  near 
me;  and,  as  she  did,  I  heard  Master  Nixon  (the  dog 
man’s*)  hound  in  full  cry,  and  seen  him  at  her  heels, 
and  he  over  the  hedge  encouraging  the  baste  to  tear 
her  in  pieces.  The  dog  soon  was  up  with  her,  and 
then  she  kept  him  off  as  wrell  as  she  could  with  her 
crutch,  cursing  the  entire  time;  and  I  was  very 
frightened,  but  I  darted  to  her  side,  and,  with  a  wat- 

*  Tax-gatherers  were  so  called  some  time  in  Ireland,  because  they  col¬ 
lected  the  duty  on  dogs. 


ITS  ONLY  A  DROP. 


‘225 

tie  I  pulled  out  of  the  hedge,  did  ray  best  to  keep  him 
off  her. 

“Master  Nixon  cursed  at  me  with  all  his  heart; 
but  I  wasn’t  to  be  turned  off  that  way.  Stacy,  her¬ 
self,  laid  about  with  her  staff;  but  the  ugly  brute 
would  have  finished  her,  only  for  me.  I  don’t  sup¬ 
pose  Nixon  meant  that;  but  the  dog  was  savage,  and 
some  men  like  him  delight  in  cruelty.  Well,  I  beat 
the  dog  off ;  and  then  I  had  to  help  the  poor  fainting 
woman,  for  she  was  both  faint  and  hurt.  I  didn’t 
much  like  bringing  her  here,  for  the  people  said  she 
wasn’t  lucky ;  however,  she  wanted  help,  and  I  gave 
it.  When  I  got  her  on  the  floor,*  I  thought  a  drop 
of  whisky  would  revive  her,  and,  accordingly,  I  offered 
her  a  glass.  I  shall  never  forget  the  venom  with  which 
she  dashed  it  on  the  ground. 

“  ‘  Do  you  want  to  poison  me,’  she  shouted,  ‘afther 
saving  my  life?’  When  she  came  to  herself  a  little, 
she  made  me  sit  down  by  her  side,  and  fixing  her 
large  gray  eyes  upon  my  face,  she  kept  rocking  her 
body  backwards  and  forwards  while  she  spoke,  as 
well  as  I  can  remember,  what  I’ll  try  to  tell  you ;  hut 
I  can’t  tell  it  as  she  did— that  wouldn’t  be  in  nature. 
‘Ellen,’  she  said,  and  her  eyes  fixed  in  my  face,  ‘I 
wasn’t  always  a  poor  lone  creature,  that  every  ruffian 
who  walks  the  country  dare  set  his  cur  at.  There 
was  full  and  plenty  in  my  father’s  house  when  I  was 
young;  but  before  I  grew  to  womanly  estate,  its  walls 
were  bare  and  roofless.  What  made  them  so  ? — Drink ! 


•  In  the  house 


226 


it’s  only  a  drop. 


whisky  !  My  father  was  in  debt :  to  kill  thought,  he 
tried  to  keep  himself  so  that  he  could  not  think :  he 
wanted  the  courage  of  a  man  to  look  his  danger  and 
difficulty  in  the  face,  and  overcome  it;  for,  Ellen,  mind 
my  words,  the  man  that  will  look  debt  and  danger  stea¬ 
dily  in  the  face,  and  resolve  to  overcome  them,  can  do  so. 
He  had  not  means,  he  said,  to  educate  his  children  as  be¬ 
came  them.  He  grew  not  to  have  means  to  find  them, 
or  their  poor  patient  mother,  the  proper  necessaries 
of  life ;  yet  he  found  the  means  to  keep  the  whisky 
cask  flowing,  and  to  answer  the  bailiff’s  knocks  for 
admission  by  the  loud  roar  of  drunkenness,  mad  as  it 
was  wicked.  They  got  in  at  last,  in  spite  of  the  care 
taken  to  keep  them  out ;  and  there  was  much  fighting, 
ay,  and  blood  spilt,  but  not  to  death ;  and  while  the 
riot  was  a-foot,  and  we  were  crying  round  the  death¬ 
bed  of  a  dying  mother,  where  was  he? — They  had 
raised  a  ten-gallon  cask  of  whisky  on  the  table  in  the 
parlour,  and  astride  on  it  sat  my  father,  flourishing  the 
huge  pewter  funnel  in  one  hand,  and  the  black  jack 
streaming  with  whisky  in  the  other ;  and  amid  the 
fumes  of  hot  punch  that  fknved  over  the  room,  and  the 
cries  and  oaths  of  the  fighting,  drunken  company,  his 
voice  was  heard,  swearing  ‘  he  had  lived  like  a  king, 
and  would  die  like  a  king.’  ” 

“  And  your  poor  mother?”  I  asked. 

“  Thank  God,  she  died  that  night !  she  died  before 
worse  came.  She  died  on  the  bed  that,  before  her 
corpse  was  cold,  was  dragged  from  under  her,  through 
the  strong  drink — through  the  badness  of  him  who 
ought  to  have  saved  her ;  not  that  he  was  a  bad  man, 


227 


it’s  only  a  drop. 

# 

either,  when  the  whisky  had  no  power  over  him,  but 
he  could  not  bear  his  own  reflections.  And  his  end 
soon  came.  He  didn’t  die  like  a  king;  he  died, 
smothered  in  a  ditch,  where  he  fell ;  he  died,  and  was 
in  the  presence  of  God — how  ?  Oh  !  there  are  things 
that  have  had  whisky  as  their  beginning,  and  their 
end,  that  made  me  as  mad  as  ever  it  made  him  !  The 
man  takes  a  drop,  and  forgets  his  starving  family ;  the 
woman  takes  it,  and  forgets  she  is  a  mother  and  a 
wife  !  It’s  the  curse  of  Ireland  !  a  bitterer,  blacker, 
deeper  curse  than  ever  was  put  on  it  by  a  foreign 
power,  or  hard  made  laws !” 

“  God  bless  us  !”  was  Larry’s  half-breathed  ejacu¬ 
lation. 

“  I  only  repeat  ould  Stacy’s  words,”  said  Ellen ; 
“you  see  I  never  forgot  them.  ‘You  may  think,’ 
she  continued,  ‘  that  I  had  had  warning  enough  to 
keep  me  from  having  any  thing  to  say  to  those  who 
were  too  fond  of  drink ;  and  I  thought  I  had ;  but, 
somehow,  Edward  Lambert  got  round  me  with  his 
sweet  words,  and  I  was  lone  and  unprotected.  I 
knew  he  had  a  little  fondness  for  the  drop,  but 
in  him,  young,  handsome,  and  gay-hearted,  with 
bright  eyes  and  sunny  hair,  it  did  not  seem  like  the 
horrid  thing  which  had  made  me  shed  no  tear  over  my 
father's  grave.  Think  of  that,  young  girl :  the  drink 
doesn’t  make  a  man  a  beast  at  first ,  but  it  will  do  so 
before  it’s  done  with  him — it  will  do  so  before  it’s 
done  with  him.  I  had  enough  power  over  Edward, 
and  enough  memory  of  the  past,  to  make  him  swear 

against  it,  except  so  much  at  such  and  such  a  time, 

16 


228 


it’s  only  a  drop. 


and,  for  a  while,  he  was  very  particular ;  but  one 
used  to  entice  him,  and  another  used  to  entice  him, 
and  I  am  not  going  to  say  but  I  might  have  managed 
him  differently ;  I  might  have  got  him  off  it — gently, 
may  be;  but  the  pride  got  the  better  of  me,  and  I 
thought  of  the  line  I  came  of,  and  how  I  had  married 
him  who  wasn’t  my  equal,  and  such  nonsense,  which 
always  breeds  disturbance  betwixt  married  people ; 
and  I  used  to  rave,  when,  may  be,  it  would  have 
been  wiser  if  I  had  reasoned.  Any  way,  things  didn’t 
go  smooth — not  that  he  neglected  his  employment; 
he  was  industrious,  and  sorry  enough  when  the  fault 
was  done ;  still  he  would  come  home  often  the  worse 
for  drink— and  now  that  he’s  dead  and  gone,  and  no 
finger  is  stretched  to  me  but  in  scorn  or  hatred,  I  think 
may  be  I  might  have  done  better;  but,  God  defend 
me,  the  last  was  hard  to  bear.’  Oh,  boys,”  said  Ellen, 
“if  you  had  only  heard  her  voice  when  she  said  that , 
and  seen  her  face — poor  ould  Lady  Stacy,  no  wonder 
she  hated  the  drop,  no  wonder  she  dashed  down  the 
whisky.” 

“  You  kept  this  mighty  close,  Ellen,”  said  Mike; 
u  I  never  heard  it  before.” 

“I  do  not  like  coming  over  it,”  she  replied  ;  “the 
last  is  hard  to  tell.  The  girl  turned  pale  while  she 
spoke,  and  Lawrence  gave  her  a  cup  of  water.  “  It 
must  be  told,”  she  said ;  “  the  death  of  her  father 
proved  the  effects  of  deliberate  drunkenness.  What 
I  have  to  say,  shows  what  may  happen  from  being 
even  once  unable  to  think  or  act. 

“ 4 1  had  one  child,’  said  Stacy,  ‘  one,  a  darlint,  blue- 


it’s  only  a  drop. 


229 


eyed,  laughing  child.  I  never  saw  any  so  handsome, 
never  knew  any  so  good.  She  was  almost  three  years 
ould,  and  he  was  fond  of  her — he  said  he  was,  but  it’s 
a  quare  fondness  that  destroys  what  it  ought  to  save. 
It  was  the  pattern  of  Lady-day,  and  well  I  knew  that 
Edward  would  not  return  as  he  went;  he  said  he 
would,  he  almost  swore  he  would  ;  but  the  promise 
of  a  man  given  to  drink  has  no  more  strength  in  it  than 
a  rope  of  sand.  I  took  sulky,  arid  wouldn’t  go;  if  I 
had,  maybe  it  wouldn’t  have  ended  so.  The  evening 
came  on,  and  I  thought  my  baby  breathed  in  her  cra¬ 
dle  ;  I  took  the  candle  and  went  over  to  look  at  her ; 
her  little  face  was  red ;  and  when  I  laid  my  cheek 
close  to  her  lips  so  as  not  to  touch  them,  but  to  feel  her 
breath,  it  was  hot — very  hot;  she  tossed  her  arms, 
and  they  were  dry  and  burning.  The  measles  were 
about  the  country,  and  I  w*as  frightened  for  my  child. 
It  was  only  half  a  mile  to  the  doctor’s ;  I  knew  every 
foot  of  the  road  ;  and  so  leaving  the  door  on  the  latch, 
I  resolved  to  tell  him  how  my  darlint  was,  and  thought 
I  should  be  back  before  my  husband’s  return.  Grass, 
you  may  be  sure,  didn’t  grow  under  my  feet.  I  ran 
with  all  speed,  and  wasn’t  kept  long,  the  doctor  said — 
though  it  seemed  long  to  me.  The  moon  was  down 
when  I  came  home,  though  the  night  was  fine.  The 
cabin  we  lived  in  was  in  a  hollow ;  but  when  I  was 
on  the  hill,  and  looked  down  where  I  knew  it  stood  a 
dark  mass,  I  thought  I  saw  a  white  light  fog  coming 
out  of  it;  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  darted  forward  as  a 
wild  bird  flies  to  its  nest  when  it  hears  the  scream  of 
the  hawk  in  the  heavens.  When  I  reached  the  door, 


230 


it’s  only  a  drop. 

I  saw  it  was  open ;  the  fume  cloud  came  out  of  it, 
sure  enough,  wdiite  and  thick;  blind  with  that  and 
terror  together,  I  rushed  to  my  child’s  cradle.  I  found 
my  way  to  that ,  in  spite  of  the  burning  and  the  smo¬ 
thering.  But  Ellen — Ellen  Murphy,  my  child,  the 
rosy  child  whose  breath  had  been  hot  on  my  cheek 
only  a  little  while  before,  she  was  nothing  but  a  cin¬ 
der.  Mad  as  I  felt,  I  saw  how  it  was  in  a  minute. 
The  father  had  come  home,  as  I  expected ;  he  had 
gone  to  the  cradle  to  look  at  his  child,  had  dropped  the 
candle  into  the  straw,  and,  unable  to  speak  or  stand, 
had  fallen  down  and  asleep  on  the  door,  not  two  yards 
from  my  child.  Oh,  how  I  flew  to  the  doctor’s  with 
what  had  been  my  baby !  I  tore  across  the  country 
like  a  banshee ;  I  laid  it  in  his  arms ;  I  told  him  if  he 
didn’t  put  life  in  it,  I’d  destroy  him  and  his  house. 
He  thought  me  mad,  for  there  was  no  breath,  either 
cold  or  hot,  coming  from  its  lips  the7i.  I  couldn’t  kiss 
it  in  death ;  there  was  nothing  left  of  my  child  to  hiss  ; 
think  of  that !  I  snatched  it  from  where  the  doctor 
had  laid  it;  I  cursed  him,  for  he  looked  with  disgust 
at  my  purty  child.  The  whole  night  long  I  wan¬ 
dered  in  the  woods  of  Newtownbarry,  with  that  burden 
at  my  heart.’  ” 

“  But  her  husband,  her  husband  !”  inquired  Larry 
in  accents  of  horror;  “what  became  of  him? — did 
she  leave  him  in  the  burning  without  calling  him  to 
himself?” 

“No,”  answered  Ellen;  “I  asked  her,  and  she 
told  me  that  her  shrieks  she  supposed  roused  him 
from  the  suffocation  in  wdiich  he  must  but  for  them 


ITS  ONLY  A  DROP 


231 


STACY  WANDERING  IJT  THE  WOODS. 


have  perished.  He  staggered  out  of  the  place,  and 
was  found  soon  after  by  the  neighbours,  and  lived 
long  after,  but  only  to  be  a  poor  heart-broken  man, 
for  she  was  mad  for  years  through  the  country ;  and 
many  a  day  after  she  told  me  that  story,  my  heart 
trembled  like  a  willow  leaf.  ‘  And  now,  Ellen  Mur- 


I 


232  it’s  only  a  drop. 

phy,'  she  added,  when  the  end  was  come,  4  do  ye 
wonder  I  threw  from  yer  hand  as  poison  the  glass  you 
offered  me  ?  And  do  you  know  why  I  have  tould 
you  what  tears  my  heart  to  come  over  ? — because  I 
wish  to  save  you,  who  showed  me  kindness,  from 
what  I  have  gone  through.  It’s  the  only  good  I  can 
do  ye,  and,  indeed,  it’s  long  since  I  cared  to  do  good. 
Never  trust  a  drinking  man ;  he  has  no  guard  on  his 
words,  and  will  say  that  of  his  nearest  friend,  that 
would  destroy  him  soul  and  body.  His  breath  is  hot 
as  the  breath  of  the  plague;  his  tongue  is  a  foolish, 
as  well  as  a  fiery  serpent.  Ellen,  let  no  drunkard 
become  your  lover,  and  don’t  trust  to  promises ;  try 
them,  prove  them  all,  before  you  marry.’  ” 

“Ellen,  that’s  enough,”  interrupted  Larry.  “I 
have  heard  enough — the  two  proofs  are  enough  with¬ 
out  words.  Now,  hear  me.  What  length  of  punish¬ 
ment  am  I  to  have?  I  won’t  say  that,,  for,  Nell, 
there’s  a  tear  in  your  eye  that  says  more  than  words. 
Look — I’ll  make  no  promises — but  you  shall  see;  I’ll 
wait  yer  time;  name  it;  I’ll  stand  the  trial.” 

And  I  am  happy  to  say,  for  the  honour  and  credit 
of  the  country,  that  Larry  did  stand  the  trial — his 
resolve  was  fixed ;  he  never  so  much  as  tasted  whis¬ 
ky  from  that  time,  and  Ellen  had  the  proud  satis¬ 
faction  of  knowing  she  had  saved  him  from  destruc¬ 
tion.  They  were  not,  however  married  till  after 
Easter.  I  wish  all  Irish  maidens  would  follow  Ellen’s 
example.  Woman  could  do  a  great  deal  to  prove  that 
“  the  least  taste  in  life  ’  is  a  great  taste  too  much  ! — 
that  “only  a  drop”  is  a  temptation  fatal  if  unresisted. 


CLIFFOltD  YISITED  BY  GREEUE. 


(234) 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


By  D.  Sthock,  Jr. 


Travellers  tell  us  of  a  serpent  which  hides  among 
the  sands  of  the  Eastern  desert,  and  bites  the  weary 
limbs  of  him  who  approaches  the  fountain  to  slake 
his  thirst.  Intoxication  is  such  a  serpent.  It  lurks 
in  the  paths  of  usefulness  and  honour,  and  stings, 
with  its  envenomed  fang,  the  youth  who,  with  heart 
bounding  with  hope,  is  beginning  to  tread  the  arena 
of  life.  Our  story  is  a  tale  of  one  of  these  victims. 

One  cold  evening  in  November,  a  young  man, 
named  Charles  Clifford,  sat  alone  in  a  small  room  of 
a  house  in  Philadelphia.  The  furniture  and  tasteful 
decorations  showed  that  it  was  the  abode  of  luxury; 
while  the  masses  of  books  piled  upon  the  shelf,  and 
strewing  a  table  near  which  he  sat,  told  that  the 
young  man  could  appreciate  the  higher  sources  of 
pleasure,  which  too  many  of  the  wealthy  neglect. 
Clifford  was,  in  every  sense  of  the  term,  a  student. 
A  college  life  had  merely  developed  his  love  of  know¬ 
ledge;  and,  since  returning  home,  he  had  applied 
himself  to  study  with  the  ardour  of  one  inspired  by 
true  genius.  Young,  accomplished,  and  wealthy, 

(235) 


236 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


society  had  many  claims  upon  him ;  but  he  neglected 
them  almost  entirely,  that  he  might  pursue  his  favour¬ 
ite  studies  alone. 

He  was  engaged  in  these  during  the  evening  of 
which  we  have  spoken.  The  subject  seemed  difficult 
and  important.  Sometimes  he  carefully  turned  over 
the  leaves  of  a  heavy  folio,  bound  in  thick  leather, 
with  massy  clasps ;  then  he  compared  one  or  two  pas¬ 
sages  in  it  with  some  in  other  volumes,  or  traced,  with 
a  rapid  hand,  his  thoughts  upon  paper;  and  at  times 
he  arose,  and,  folding  his  arms,  walked  slowly  over 
the  floor. 

A  loud  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  him.  The 
servant  announced  Mr.  Greene. 

Robert  Greene  had  been  a  student  at  the  college 
with  Clifford.  His  appearance  and  manners  were  of 
the  class  which  excite  involuntary  disgust,  when  be¬ 
held  for  the  first  time.  The  cadaverous  countenance, 
almost  buried  in  hair,  an  eye,  whose  clouded  and 
sickly  colour  told  that  the  system  had  been  ruined  by 
abuse,  and  an  assumption  of  affability  in  voice  and 
gestures,  were  too  conspicuous  to  pass  unnoticed,  even 
by  the  dullest  observer.  He  was  somewhat  older  than 
Clifford,  and  they  had  been  in  the  same  class  at  col¬ 
lege.  They  had  conversed  together,  studied  together, 
passed  much  time  together;  yet  they  had  never  been 
real  friends.  There  was  no  similarity  in  character 
which  might  unite  the  affections  of  the  two  hearts 
into  one.  During  the  year  that  had  elapsed  since 
leaving  college,  they  had  met  only  occasionally,  and 
in  the  street.  Their  acquaintance  was  about  to  be 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


237 


renewed.  After  his  usual  rude  salutation,  Greene 
said — 

“  Still  at  your  books,  Charley  ?  Study,  study  night 
and  day,  as  though  college  lasted  for  a  lifetime, 
without  holiday.  Are  you  writing  a  history  of  the 
world,  or  learning  to  simplify  the  Chinese  grammar  ?” 

“  Neither,”  answered  the  other.  “I  study  because 
I  find  pleasure  in  studying.” 

“  Pleasure  !  Well,  Charley,  that  beats  all  yet.  You 
used  to  say  funny  things  at  college,  but  nothing 
equal  to  that.  And  do  you  enjoy  such  pleasure  every 
night?” 

“  I  do  not  often  go  out,”  replied  Clifford. 

“  But  you  can  go  with  me  to-night,”  said  his  visiter. 
“A  few  of  us  college  chaps  are  about  to  have  a  little 
social  fun  to  ourselves — that  is,  in  plain  terms,  a  sup¬ 
per.  There  will  be  fine  eating,  finef  drinking,  and 
no  scarcity  of  chatting  and  singing.  We  concluded 
we  could  not  do  without  you,  so  you  must  give  up 
the  pleasures  of  study  for  one  night.  It  will  be  rare 
sport.” 

“  I  shall  ask  to  decline,”  answered  Clifford. 

“  We  will  hear  of  no  declining.  Do  you  not  wish 
to  keep  alive  old  acquaintances?” 

“But  I  am  very  busy  this  evening.  Besides,  I 
never  go  to  evening  suppers.” 

“  Not  conscientious,  I  hope,”  said  Greene,  with  a 
chuckling  laugh. 

Clifford  answered  that  he  was  not. 

“Then  you  must  come.  As  to  your  objection  of 
rarely  going  out,  I  remember  seeing  a  young  man 


238 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD 


about  Clifford’s  size,  walking  very  complacently  from 
church  last  Sunday  evening — in  company,  too.  The 
cool,  clear  air  seemed  quite  refreshing  to  him.” 

During  the  greater  part  of  this  conversation,  Clif¬ 
ford  had  appeared  listless  as  one  in  a  re  very.  The 
last  sentence  roused  him.  He  looked  at  Greene  with 
a  keen  and  half  irritated  gaze,  as  though  he  would 
read  the  thoughts  of  which  these  half  bantering 
words  were  an  index.  Greene,  discovering  this, 
changed  his  tone  ancj  continued — 

“  Come,  Charley,  w^e  wrant  you  with  us.  You  will 
see  more  there  than  you  are  aware  of.  Many  whom 
you  will  be  glad  to  take  by  the  hand,  are  this  moment 
waiting  to  greet  you.  It  will  be  mortifying,  indeed, 
if  you  are  so  ungenerous  as  to  refuse,  after  receiving 
a  formal  invitation.” 

Clifford  was  overcome  by  these  wrords,  urged  in 
a  persuasive  tone.  Notwithstanding  his  studious 
habits,  he  had  always  been  fond  of  company ;  and  the 
singular  invitation  which  Greene  had  extended  to 
him  made  him  suspect  that  there  might  be,  in  this 
evening  party,  more  than  at  first  appeared.  It  must 
be  added,  also,  that  his  main  defect  of  character  wras 
timidity,  which  led  him  to  yield  obedience  to  others, 
even  when  his  judgment  opposed  such  concession. 
Such  was  the  case  in  the  present  instance. 

The  supper  was  held  in  a  hall  which  Greene’s 
friends  had  rented  for  the  occasion.  At  entering, 
Clifford  wras  greeted  wdth  a  round  of  applause,  for 
many  there  wTere  sincerely  glad  to  see  him.  Amid 
the  flow  of  voices,  the  hilarity  of  those  who  had  once 


V 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD.  239 

been  schoolboys,  the  exchange  of  repartee,  and  an 
occasional  song,  Clifford  forgot  his  studies,  and 
mingled  freely  with  his  companions.  During  the 
entertainment  wine  was  introduced. 

“  Now,  Clifford,”  said  a  young  man  named  Reed, 
“you  and  I  will  drink  each  other’s  health.  Fill  your 
glass.”  Clifford  shook  his  head,  saying  that  he  never 
drank  wine. 

“  Never  drink  wine  !”  exclaimed  Reed,  as  a  num¬ 
ber  of  eyes  turned  towards  Clifford,  “Never  drink 
wine  !  You  are  not  a  tee-totaller,  I  hope.” 

“No,”  he  replied — but  the  blood  mounted  to  his 
cheek,  on  seeing  that  he  had  become  an  object  of 
wonder  to  his  companions. 

“  But  you  must  drink  to  night  for  company’s  sake,” 
Reed  answered.  “  We  shall  be  offended  if  you  refuse.” 
Clifford  shook  his  head.  Many  voices  urged  him, 
some  in  a  pleasant  tone,  others  with  suppressed  con¬ 
tempt.  This  time,  however,  the  young  man  appeared 
firm  in  his  refusal;  for  from  conscientious  motives  he 
had,  since  leaving  college,  abstained  from  the  use  of 
wane.  But  at  this  moment  Greene  exclaimed,  in  an 
ironical  tone,  - 

“  Don’t  force  him  to  commit  wrong.  He’s  afraid 
that  he’ll  get  drunk.”  A  shout  of  laughter  from 
many  of  the  half  intoxicated  group  followed.  Clif¬ 
ford’s  firmness  gave  way.  He  raised  the  glass,  and 
drained  it  to  the  bottom.  Loud  acclamations  rose 
from  every  side;  and  before  they  subsided,  the  young 
man  had  emptied  another  glass  and  another.  It  is 


240 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


needless  to  say  that  before  leaving  the  hall  he  was 
intoxicated. 

It  was  with  trembling  hand  that  Clifford  applied, 
that  night,  the  dead-latch  of  his  door.  During  his 
walk  home,  the  cool  air  had  somewhat  sobered  him, 
so  that  he  felt  ashamed  and  degraded.  It  being  late, 
all  in  the  house  were  asleep.  With  as  little  noise  as 
possible  he  passed  into  his  room,  closed  the  door,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  bed,  was  soon  asleep. 
Before  daylight,  he  awoke  cold,  sick,  and  with  a  vio¬ 
lent  pain  in  the  head.  A  few  moments’  reflection 
brought  before  his  memory,  in  vivid  colours,  the 
scenes  of  the  preceding  evening.  He  shut  his  eyes 
to  the  truth,  he  tried  to  believe  it  all  a  dream;  he 
arose  and  paced  the  floor,  repeating  with  vehement 
gestures, — “  It  cannot  be — it  cannot  be.” 

Sometimes  he  stopped  suddenly,  and  raising  his 
clenched  hands,  he  cursed  the  one  who  had  led  him 
into  temptation,  and  his  own  weakness  which  had 
made  him  willing  to  yield.  He  longed  for  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  daylight  when  he  might  go  into  the  open  air. 
The  night  seemed  endless;  and  at  last,  though  shi¬ 
vering  with  cold,  he  sat  down  by  the  window,  and 
clasped  his  throbbing  head  in  his  hands.  While 
there,  an  hour  passed  away.  It  was  one  of  those 
hours  of  terrible  agony,  when  a  youth  of  generous 
feelings,  and  hitherto  unspotted  character,  feels,  for  the 
first  time,  the  consciousness  of  his  own  degradation. 

The  scene  that  morning  at  the  breakfast-table  of 
Mrs  Clifford  was  a  sad  one.  He  who  had  hitherto 
supplied  the  loss  of  the  husband  and  father,  was  re- 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


241 


served  and  gloomy.  His  mother  and  sisters  felt  that 
something  unusual  had  occurred ;  none  suspected 
what  it  was.  Clifford  passed  directly  from  the  table 
to  his  study.  As  this  was  his  usual  custom  it  ex¬ 
cited  no  suspicion ;  but  when,  after  partaking  of  no 
dinner,  the  afternoon  wore  away  without  his  appear¬ 
ing,  the  family  became  alarmed.  Annette,  his  young¬ 
est  and  favourite  sister,  stole  silently  to  the  door  of 
his  room,  wdiere  she  paused  to  listen.  No  sound 
came  from  it.  She  knocked;  but  still  there  was  no 
sound.  With  a  convulsive  effort,  she  pushed  open 
the  door  and  entered.  Her  brother  was  sitting  on  a 
chair  by  the  window,  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his 
chin  sunk  upon  his  breast.  He  appeared  unconscious 
of  any  thing  around,  and  his  eyes,  swelled  with  'in¬ 
flammation,  were  bent  upon  the  floor.  Annette,  much 
frightened,  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

“  Brother,  what  is  the  matter?”  she  exclaimed. 

Clifford  started  to  his  feet.  Emotions  of  sorrow, 
humiliation,  and  anger  flitted  across  his  face,  and  he 
fixed  his  eye,  in  a  manner  that  he  had  never  done 
before,  on  his  sister.  It  was  some  moments  before 
the  trembling  girl  could  repeat  her  question. 

“  Nothing,”  he  replied.  “  Leave  me — I  want  to 
be  alone.” 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  which  made  her 
shudder. 

“  Oh,  brother,”  she  said,  approaching  and  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  “  why  do  you  speak  so  to  me  ? 
It  is  Annette,  your  own  sister.  I  will  soothe  and 
comfort  you.” 


% 


242 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


“  Leave  me,  Annette !”  he  exclaimed  wildly.  I 
want  no  comforter.  Who  told  you  to  interrupt  me  in 
my  own  study  ?” 

“ Brother,  brother!”  she  sobbed,  clasping  his  arm 
tighter ;  but  he  tore  it  from  her  grasp,  and  seizing  his 
hat,  hurried  out  of  the  door  and  down  the  steps.  She 
heard  the  hall  door  open  and  close  again. 

There  are  those  in  society,  noisy,  talkative,  and 
eager  to  display  all  the  talents,  natural  or  acquired, 
which  they  possess,  who  are,  notwithstanding,  slow 
and  undecisive  in  action.  Fortunatelv,  the  same 
traits  of  character  which  prevent  them  from  advancing 
in  a  good  cause,  keep  them  from  any  great  degree  of 
depravity  in  a  bad  one.  On  the  other  hand,  there  are 
a  few  who,  silent,  observant,  and  industrious,  do  much 
in  a  little  time,  and  who  form  the  real  support  of  the 
cause  in  which  they  may  be  engaged.  If  right,  their 
influence  is  powerful  for  good  ;  but  if  once  they  turn 
into  the  path  of  evil,  they  rush  to  ruin  headlong. 
Charles  Clifford  w~as  one  of  these.  A  few  hours  had 
deranged  the  good  habits  of  years.  He  was  no  longer 
the  calm  and  cheerful  student  that  he  had  been  the 
day  before.  During  the  morning  he  had  made  re¬ 
peated  attempts  to  study,  but  his  mind  seemed  con¬ 
fused,  and  a  cold,  sad  feeling  gathered  round  his 
heart  as  he  turned  over  the  dull  pages  ;  and  he  seemed 
still  to  he  amid  the  revelry  of  the  previous  evening. 
His  conduct  to  the  sister  whom  he  tenderly  loved 
showed  how  wide  was  the  chasm  which  the  commis¬ 
sion  of  the  first  degrading  act  had  thrown  between  his 
present  feelings  and  his  former  life. 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


243 


After  leaving  his  home,  Clifford  walked  rapidly 
along,  sometimes  crossing  from  one  side  to  the  other, 
or  turning  into  a  cross  street  like  one  who  wanders 
at  random.  To  abate,  in  some  measure,  the  acute- 
ness  of  his  feelings,  he  walked  rapidly,  and  endea¬ 
voured  to  drive  from  his  mind  the  impression  of  the 
last  scene  with  his  sister.  He  was  unequal  to  such  a 
task.  Her  look,  her  tones  of  affection,  the  words  that 
she  had  used  to  soothe  him,  rose  before  his  sight  and 
rang  in  his  ears.  In  mental  anguish,  he  pressed  his 
lips  together,  and  hurried  on  with  uneven  step,  until 
the  veins  of  his  forehead  swelled  almost  to  bursting, 
and  strangers  stared  at  him  from  the  windows  and 
sidewalks.  He  could  not  shake  off  the  memory  of 
Annette’s  words. 

“  Wretch  that  I  am  !”  he  at  length  exclaimed,  half 
aloud.  “  Oh,  that  I  could  live  last  night  over  !”  He 
paused,  and  turned  as  if  to  see  where  he  was.  The 
air  was  cold,  but  he  stood  with  folded  arms  for  nearly 
ten  minutes,  apparently  lost  in  thought.  He  was  in¬ 
terrupted  by  feeling  some  one  grasp  his  arm. 

“  Why,  Clifford !”  exclaimed  a  low  voice,  “  are  you 
mad  to  night  ?  I  have  followed  you  for  a  half  hour, 
and  really  no  man  in  his  senses  could  act  more  like  a 
madman  than  I  have  seen  you  do.” 

“  I’m  a  wretch !”  the  young  man  said,  involuntarily. 

“  Nonsense.  Don’t  you  know  me?” 

“  No !  I  have  never  seen  you  before  !  leave  me.” 

“  Clifford,”  said  the  other,  half  solemnly,  “  I  hope 
you  are  only  joking.  Surely  you  know  the  brother 
of  Mary  Sanderson.’ 


17 


244 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


‘  Is  it  you,  Harry  ?”  exclaimed  Clifford,  as  the  name 
of  her  he  loved  fell  on  his  ear.  “  Excuse  me,”  he 
continued,  clasping  his  hand.  “I  believe  I  am  up¬ 
side  down  to  night;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment, 
while  I  was  thinking  about  something.  I  was  rude, 
Harry — very  rude.” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  what  I  think,  Charley,”  Sanderson 
said,  in  his  straight-forward  manner.  “  Study  is  kill¬ 
ing  you.  You  have  wasted  almost  to  a  skeleton — 
and  take  cate  that  the  waste  of  mind  does  not  follow. 
What  good  will  it  do  you  to  know  more  than  a  whole 
college  of  professors  ?  Or,  if  it  will  do  you  good,  be 
generous  enough  to  wait  a  little  while  until  some  of 
us  ignorant  ones  catch  up  with  you.” 

“What  you  say  may  be  true,”  returned  Clifford; 

“  but-:  ■  ” 

“But  what?” 

“  I  hardly  know  what  I  would  say.  Let  us  change 
the  subject.” 

“  Well,  you  must  go  with  me  to  night,  Charley.” 

“Where?” 

“  Where  do  you  suppose,  if  not  to  the  house  ?  Mary 
'  will  rejoice  to  see  you.” 

At  any  other  moment  Clifford  would  have  lost  no 
time  closing  with  this  invitation.  Now,  a  change 
was  upon  him.  He  felt  that  degradation  was  written 
upon  his  brow  too  plainly  to  escape  observation.  He 
hesitated  and  was  silent.  Sanderson  again  invited 


i 

i 

I 


? 


\ 

i 


“I  must  be  excused  to  night,”  he  said,  in  a  sad 
tone. 

•  •  .  ...  •  I  I  ttsl  \ 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


245 


“  Well,  this  is  strange  !”  exclaimed  his  friend.  “  Do 
I  speak  with  Charles  Clifford,  or  not  ?  But  you  must 
come,”  he  continued,  after  a  pause;  and,  placing  his 
friend’s  arm  within  his  own,  he  drew  him  gently 
along. 

They  were  soon  at  Sanderson’s  house.  The  misery 
depicted  on  Clifford’s  countenance  was  palpably  visi¬ 
ble  to  blinder  eyes  than  those  of  Harry’s  sister.  Her 
first  salutation  was  an  involuntary  inquiry  into  the 
cause  of  his  unusual  appearance.  He  returned 
an  evasive  answer,  but  Sanderson  exclaimed,  sud¬ 
denly — 

“  I  found  him  wandering  in  the  street  in  a  brown- 
study,  telling  nobody  that  he  was  a  wretch.  He  is 
either  planning  a  tragedy,  or  going  mad.  So  I  con¬ 
cluded  to  bring  him  where  he  might  find  a  remedy.” 

There  was^  but  one  person  to  whom  Clifford  did 
not  seem  an  inexplicable  problem.  That  one  was 
Mary  Sanderson.  She  had  learned  to  know  and  to 
love  him,  and  she,  too,  appeared  to  him  as  the  bright 
personification  of  the  dreams  of  innocent  loveliness, 
which  had  occupied  many  an  hour  of  his  college  days. 
He  had  become  acquainted  with  her  through  Harry, 
and  to  her  he  devoted  almost  all  the  time  spared  from 
study.  Often,  when  fatigued  with  mental  labour,  he 
repaired  to  her  house,  and  found  in  her  conversation 
the  relief  which  no  mere  amusement  can  afford. 
Mutual  esteem  ripened  into  a  holier  feeling;  and  the 
brother  beheld  with  pride  the  affections  of  her  whom 
he  was  proud  to  call  sister,  concentrating  upon  one 
so  worthy  of  her. 


246 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


With  the  quick  feeling  of  intuition,  Mary  perceived 
that  something  more  than  the  effects  of  study  ailed 

Clifford.  Hearts  which  have  long  been  in  unison 

» 

are  skilled  to  detect  the  slightest  cause  for  derange¬ 
ment.  In  the  haggard  countenance,  the  shrinking 
eye,  the  inconsistent  replies,  she  read  enough  to  alarm 
and  shock  her.  The  interview  was  reserved  and 
painful.  Harry,  who  entered  towards  its  close,  per¬ 
ceived  that  something  was  the  matter,  greater  than 
he  had  at  first  anticipated.  He  inquired  if  his  friend 
was  sick ;  to  which  Clifford  replied  that  he  did  not 
feel  well. 

“  Shall  I  pour  you  out  a  glass  of  wine?”  said 
Harry. 

It  might  be  expected  that  the  unhappy  young 
man  would  reject  the  offer  almost  with  abhorrence. 
In  the  morning  this  would  have  been  the  case;  but 
to  the  first  powerful  energy  of  wounded  character 
had  succeeded  a  passive  apathy — the  recklessness  of 
despair,  which  rendered  him  careless  even  of  evil. 

He  felt  degraded — degraded,  too,  in  the  presence 
of  her  who  loved  him  to  adoration.  No  depth  of 
misery  now  appeared  low.  Silently  he  accepted  the 
offered  glass,  and,  nerving  himself  for  the  effort,  drank 
its  contents  in  silence.  He  returned  home  an  altered 
man.  The  first  step  to  ruin  had  already  hurried  him 
a  fearful  distance  down  its  broad  path. 

The  wine  drank  in  the  presence  of  Mary  Sander¬ 
son  had  produced  upon  him  an  effect  far  different 
from  that  of  the  evening  previous.  It  seemed  to  re¬ 
move  the  weight  of  grief  from  his  mind,  and  to  inspire 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


247 


him  with  a  delirium  of  delight.  He  walked  home 
with  a  buoyant  step,  and,  on  reaching  his  study,  rang 
for  a  servant.  Though  late  at  night,  he  demanded 
wine ;  drank  three  or  four  glasses,  and  retired  to  bed 
intoxicated  ! 

One  afternoon,  about  three  weeks  after  this  occur¬ 
rence,  Clifford  sat  alone  in  the  large  parlour  of  his 
mother’s  house.  A  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the 
grate.  In  the  short  time  we  have  mentioned,  a 
change  had  come  over  the  members  of  this  once 
happy  family.  There  was  sadness  on  every  brow ; 
but  the  true  cause  of  this  change  had  not  yet  been 
discovered.  On  the  above-named  day,  Clifford  had 
been  alone  since  noon;  about  four  o’clock,  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Annette.  Her  face  was 
pale,  but  her  red  and  swollen  eyes  showed  that 
she  had  been  weeping.  In  her  hand  was  a  basket, 
containing  several  fine  oranges,  of  which  her  brother 
was  immoderately  fond.  She  advanced  towards  him, 
and  said — 

“  I  have  brought  these  for  you,  Charles.” 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of  deep 
melancholy.  Annette  again  offered  the  fruit. 

“I  do  not  want  them,  Annette,”  he  said. 

“  Shall  I  sing  to  you,  brother?” 

He  shook  his  head. 

“Will  you  go  with  me,  this  evening,  to  Miss  Camp¬ 
bell’s  party  ?” 

Still  he  was  silent. 

“  Then  let  me  play  on  the  piano  for  you  Oh, 
brother,  do  not  refuse  me  this.” 


248 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


Tears  started  to  the  poor  girl's  eyes,  as  she  thus 
pleaded  for  the  privilege  of  making  another  happy. 
For  a  moment,  Clifford's  feelings  were  touched.  He 
longed  to  unburden  his  heart  to  her,  but  the  transient 
repentance  passed  away ;  for  degradation  had  already 
blunted  his  feelings,  and  rendered  him  selfish.  In  a 
tone  of  impatience  he  replied  that  he  did  not  want  to 
hear  music.  Annette  placed  her  basket  upon  a  table 
and  burst  into  tears. 

“  What  is  the  matter  ?"  he  said,  with  cruel  calm¬ 
ness. 

She  could  not  reply ;  but,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands,  she  sobbed  aloud.  This  was  more  than  he 
could  bear.  Ashamed  of  his  behaviour,  he  seated  him¬ 
self  by  her  side,  and  attempted  to  soothe  her  injured 
feelings.  An  hour  of  wretchedness  followed,  during 
which  Annette  gradually  recovered  her  self-posses¬ 
sion.  Clifford  spoke  first. 

“  I  will  take  these  oranges  to  my  study,  sister." 

“  I  did  not  bring  them  as  a  present,  Charles,"  she 
said  calmly.  “  It  was  merely  as  a  token  of  affection. 
But  you  do  not  love  me  now  as  you  did  once." 

“Do  not  say  so,  Annette,"  he  replied,  drawing  her 
closer  to  him,  “you  are  still  dear  to  me  as  ever." 

“  Oh  brother,"  she  answered,  “if  you  knew  what  I 
have  suffered  for  more  than  two  weeks,  you  would  not 
refuse  the  pledge  of  reconciliation  wThich  I  brought 
you." 

“  Let  us  forget  it,  sister.  The  cause  is  with  me, 
but  it  shall  exist  no  longer.  You  do  not  know  all, 
Annette — no,  nor  never  will ;  but  let  us  forget  the 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


249 


% 


past  and  again  be  happy.  I  know  you  will  forgive 
me.” 

A  glad  smile  illumined  her  features  as  she  heard 
these  words,  uttered  in  the  kind  tone  of  former  days. 
Charles,  too,  was  happy.  A  sudden  impulse  of  virtue 
had  made  him  confident  of  his  ability  to  reform ;  so 
that  the  gloom  which  had  hung  heavily  around  him, 
all  at  once  dissipated,  the  evening  passed  as  though 
the  week  had  not  been  one  of  sorrow ;  and  for  several 
days  Charles  abstained  altogether  from  wine. 

But  the  resolutions  formed  through  impulse  are 
quickly  broken.  Only  two  weeks  after  Clifford  had 
resolved  to  abstain  from  wine,  Annette  sat  alone  in 
the  parlour  waiting  for  her  brother’s  return.  It  was 
night,  and  her  mother  and  sisters  had  retired  to  bed. 
Until  long  after  midnight  she  watched  for  him,  some¬ 
times  hurrying  from  room  to  room,  at  others  listening 
by  the  window  to  hear  his  footstep.  A  vague  dread 
of  some  unknown  evil  haunted  her  mind,  and  pre¬ 
vented  weariness  or  sleep.  They  who  under  like 
Circumstances  have  held  their  vigil  hour  after  hour, 
may  tell  how  much  the  heart,  on  such  occasions,  en¬ 
dures.  But  at  length  the  fearful  pause  was  broken. 
The  brother  came,  and  Annette  flew  to  meet  him. 
To  her  eager  questions  he  returned  some  gruff  un¬ 
intelligible  reply ;  and  shaking  her  hand  from  his 
arm,  stumbled  into  his  sitting-room,  which  was  on 
the  same  floor  as  the  parlour.  In  a  short  time  all 
was  silent.  Annette  waited  a  few  minutes,  until  sure 
that  he  was  not  moving  about  the  room.  Then,  with 
as  little  noise  as  possible,  she  glided  through  the  en- 


250 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


CLIFFORD  AND  HIS  SISTER. 


try,  unlatched  the  door,  and  entered  the  sitting-room. 
Charles  had  thrown  himself  upon  a  sofa  and  was 
breathing  heavily.  The  confined  air  was  already 
tainted  with  the  odour  of  wine ;  and  as  Annette  ap¬ 
proached  and  bent  over  him,  the  truth  flashed  upon 
her  mind.  That  moment  afforded  her  an  index  to 
the  cause  of  her  late  wretchedness. 

The  sight  of  her  brother,  drunken,  changed,  de¬ 
graded,  was  a  terrible  blow  to  Annette.  At  first  the 
shock  seemed  overpowering ;  but  she  did  not  yield  to 
it.  Woman  sinks  before  little  distresses;  she  braves, 
with  nerve  of  steel,  calamities  which  seem  overpower¬ 
ing.  Before  she  retired  to  her  couch,  Annette  had 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


251 


resolved  to  hide  from  the  family,  the  knowledge  of 
her  brother’s  fall,  and  to  attempt  his  reformation. 
From  that  night  she  appeared  cheerful  and  happy 
as  formerly,  skilfully  eluded  all  reference  to  his  al¬ 
tered  appearance,  and  openly  construed  his  momen¬ 
tary  tits  of  repentance  into  proofs  of  a  disposition 
still  loving  and  affectionate.  At  the  same  time  she 
laboured  with  her  brother  to  inspire  his  mind  with 
its  former  sense  of  honour  and  dignity.  But  an  un¬ 
looked-for  accident  defeated  these  efforts. 

Clifford’s  downward  course  was,  as  we  have  said, 
rapid.  In  a  little  more  than  twTo  months  he  had  im¬ 
bibed  an  intense  thirst  for  ardent  spirits,  and  had 
often  appeared  in  the  streets  intoxicated.  On  one  of 
these  occasions  he  suddenly  met  face  to  face  with  his 
friend  Sanderson.  To  the  latter,  such  a  meeting  im¬ 
parted  a  shock  which  he  could  scarcely  sustain. 
Grasping  Clifford’s  hand,  he  looked  earnestly  in  his 
face  and  said, 

“  Where  are  you  going,  Charles?”  Clifford’s  an¬ 
swer  was  unintelligible.  “  Will  you  go  to  your  house 
with  me?”  continued  Sanderson  ;  for  he  dreaded  lest 
his  friend  might  be  recognized  in  the  street.  Clif¬ 
ford  -replied  with  a  volley  of  jests,  songs,  and  inco¬ 
herent  exclamations.  At  length  Sanderson  succeeded 
in  conducting  him,  without  much  trouble,  to  Mrs. 
Clifford’s  residence.  He  then  disappeared,  unwilling 
to  witness  the  meeting  which  would  ensue  at  Clif¬ 
ford’s  entrance.  That  meeting  destroyed  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  Annette’s  hope  of  concealing  her  brother’s 
shame,  and  revealed  to  the  widow,  that  her  only  son, 


252 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


he  of  whom  so  many  hopes  had  been  formed,  was  a 
drunkard. 

Perhaps  no  one  felt  this  fact  more  keenly  than  did 
Harry  Sanderson.  His  personal  esteem  for  Clifford, 
the  intimacy  of  their  families,  the  relation  which  he 
sustained^  to  Mary,  all  tended  to  enhance  this  sym¬ 
pathy  for  his  friend.  It  will  not  appear  strange,  there¬ 
fore,  that  during  his  walk  home,  and  during  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  the  evening,  he  thought  over  the  painful 
subject,  with  a  view  of  devising  some  plan  for  his 
friend’s  reformation.  That  the  habit  was  a  confined 
one  he  did  not  doubt.  It  enabled  him  to  explain 
many  circumstances  in  Clifford’s  conduct  hitherto  in¬ 
explicable  ;  but  he  had  forgotten  the  fatal  glass  which 
he  had  administered  to  his  friend  three  months  be¬ 
fore.  At  length,  he  determined  not  to  reveal  what 
he  had  seen  to  Mary,  but  to  invite  Clifford  to  a  per¬ 
sonal  conference,  at  which  he  might  frankly  state  the 
incident  of  the  preceding  evening,  and  endeavour  to 
ascertain  the  feelings  of  his  friend  with  regard  to  the 
future. 

The  interview — a  painful  one — took  place.  San¬ 
derson  stated,  as  delicately  as  he  could,  what  he  had 
witnessed.  He  spoke  some  words  about  his  friend’s 
condition  only  a  few  months  previous — and  now,  how 
altered  !  With  shame  and  contrition,  Clifford  ac¬ 
knowledged  his  fault.  “  Oh  !  does  Mary  know  it?” 
he  added,  in  a  tone  of  agony. 

Sanderson  shook  his  head. 

“  And  she  will  not?”  he  inquired,  with  a  look  of 
sorrow. 


253 


% 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 

Sanderson  was  silent  until  the  question  was  re¬ 
peated.  Then  he  replied — 

“  Need  I  tell  her,  Charles?  Will  she  not  discover 
it?” 

“  Harry,”  said  the  young  man,  rising,  and  pacing 
the  floor,  “  why  did  you  offer  me  that  fatar  glass  of 
wine  ?” 

Sanderson  started.  As  his  friend  walked  backward 
and  forward,  with  every  feature  distorted  by  the  in¬ 
tensity  of  his  feelings,  the  remembrance  of  the  inti¬ 
mated  event  flashed  across  his  mind,  and  with  it  the 
fearful  consciousness  that  he  had  been  an  a^ent  in 
his  friend’s  degradation.  A  long  silence  followed  ;  at 
the  end  of  which  Sanderson  advanced  towards  his 
friend,  and,  taking  him  by  the  hand,  exclaimed — 

“  Charley,  swear,  before  you  leave  the  room,  that 
you  will  renounce  wine  for  ever.  I  know  you  hate  a 
drunkard  as  much  as  I  do.  Make  but  a  vigorous 
effort,  and  you  are  safe.” 

“I  cannot,”  replied  Clifford;  “it’s  useless  to  try. 
The  habit  has,  in  three  months,  become  a  monster.  I 
am  already  old  in  misery.” 

“  Why,  Clifford,”  exclaimed  his  friend,  “  do  not 
give  way  to  feeling  in  this  manner.  Remember  you 
are  a  man;  remember  your  station  in  society,  and 
your  hopes  as  a  student.  Meet  the  danger  at  once, 
and  conquer  it.” 

Clifford  shook  his  head, 

“  Then  promise  to  meet  me  again  to-morrow 
night,”  continued  Sanderson.  His  object  was  to  af¬ 
ford  his  friend  time  to  reflect,  and  he  succeeded.  The 


2  4  CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 

two  young  men  parted — one,  at  least,  in  better  hopes 
than  he  had  entertained  in  the  early  part  of  the 
evening. 

We  need  not  state  that  the  following  day  was,  to 
Clifford,  one  of  mental  anguish.  In  the  evening,  he 
repaired'to  the  house  of  his  friend.  There  they  both 
agreed  to  renounce,  entirely,  the  use  of  wine,  or  any 
intoxicating  drink.  The  past  was  thrown  to  oblivion,  . 
the  future  seemed  to  promise  only  years  of  prosperity. 
One  month  after,  Clifford  was  intoxicated  ! 

And  during  this  period,  where  was  Mary  Sander¬ 
son  ?  The  shade  which  hung  on  the  brow  and  the 
heart  of  Clifford  had  darkened  her  own  ;  and  she  had 
already  begun  to  feel  the  sorrow  which  wastes  more 
surely,  because  endured  in  secret.  For  several  weeks, 
mere  casual  circumstances — the  tone  of  voice,  a  ges¬ 
ture,  or  a  glance,  had  revealed  to  her  the  change  in 
Clifford’s  character.  Then  followed  proofs,  at  first 
obstinately  rejected,  then  endured  with  feelings  which 
found  utterance  only  in  tears ;  so  that,  even  before 
the  fact  was  known  to  her  brother,  Mary  was  fully 
apprised  of  it.  She,  like  Annette,  formed  a  resolution 
that  none  should  know  it  but  herself;  but  the  secret, 
hidden  in  her  bosom,  gnawed  upon  its  frail  tenement, 
until  the  flush  of  health  fled  from  her  cheek,  her  step 
fell  heavy  and  uncertain,  and  round  her  eye  a  dull 
green  shade  gathered,  which  told  that  the  mind  itself 
had  grown  sickly. 

We  would  not  repeat  the  oft- told  tale  of  a  drunk¬ 
ard’s  course — of  the  tears  shed  over  the  memory  of 
departed  worth;  of  the  gentle  ones,  by  necessity  made 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


255 


courageous,  who  cling  to  him  through  sorrow,  and 
want,  and  shame,  with  affection  which  glows  brighter 
and  holier  as  the  dark  vortex  of  sin  draws  him  within 
it ;  of  the  hopes  departed,  the  hours  clouded,  the 
wretched  ones  that,  one  by  one,  go  down  to  the  tomb, 
unhonoured  and  unpitied,  because  they  have  been 
related  to  the  drunkard.  Let  us,  reader,  pass  over 
two  years  of  such  scenes,  and  behold  one  in  which 
the  inebriate  and  his  victim  were  brought  together. 

One  day  in  the  spring  of  184-,  a  funeral  procession 
moved  slowly  from  the  city  towards  a  small  but  beau¬ 
tiful  burying-ground,  in  a  pleasant  part  of  the  country. 
The  air  was  chill,  from  a  recent  shower;  and  over  the 
face  of  the  sky  heavy  clouds  still  hung  in  masses, 
through  which  the  sun  darted  only  a  few  straggling 
rays.  The  long  line  of  black  carriages  dragged  labo¬ 
riously  through  the  half-frozen  road  ;  the  silence — the 
gloomy  day,  accorded  well  with  the  hour  when  all  that 
remains  of  departed  friendship,  is  to  be  consigned  to 
the  tomb.  As  they  approached  the  village,  near  which 
was  the  burial-place,  some  persons,  touched  by  the 
scene,  opened  their  doors  to  gaze  upon  it ;  a  few  boys 
threw  stones  at  the  muddy  carriages ;  while  from  a 
tavern,  whose  sign  swung  listlessly  in  the  wind,  two 
miserable  creatures  issued,  and  joined  in  the  proces¬ 
sion  with  mock  solemnity,  followed  it  to  the  grave¬ 
yard.  In  strange  contrast  to  mourning  wealth,  they 
walked  over  the  damp  sods,  and  stood  with  the  com¬ 
pany,  while  a  few  words  were  spoken  by  a  clergy¬ 
man  over  the  grave.  Before  the  coffin  was  lowered 
into  the  grave,  one  of  them  again  directed  his  steps  to 


256 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD 


the  tavern.  But  some  who  were  glancing  suspiciously 
at  the  other,  thought  they  could  detect  in  his  counte¬ 
nance  an  expression  not  inconsistent  wdth  the  solem¬ 
nities  to  which  they  had  been  listening.  The  spirit 
of  better  times  seemed  suddenly  to  gleam  from  his 
bloated  countenance. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  carriages,  with  their  train  of 
mourners,  had  driven  away.  The  chill  air  and  the 
damp  earth  had  prevented  even  the  relatives  from  re¬ 
maining.  The  sexton  plied  in  silence  his  task  of  Fill¬ 
ing  the  grave.  The  man  who  had  followed  the  pro¬ 
cession  was  still  there.  For  a  time  he  watched  the 
motions  of  the  spade  without  speaking.  Then  ap¬ 
proaching  the  sexton,  he  inquired  the  name  of  the  one 
who  had  been  buried. 

“  Her  name  was  Mary  Sanderson,’’  said  the  grave¬ 
digger. 

O  O 

“  Marv  Sanderson  ! — not  Sanderson  ?”  said  the 
«/ 

other. 

“  Yes,  Sanderson.  Why  do  you  stare  at  me  in  that 
wild  manner?” 

“  And  did  you  know  her?” 

“Yes;  and  a  sweet  girl  she  was.  It  is  said  she 
broke  her  heart,  poor  thing !  She  loved  one  who  de¬ 
ceived  her,  and  afterwards  no  one  ever  saw  her  smile. 
Many  a  one  who  knew  her,  will  be  sad  enough  to  hear 
that  she  is  gone.” 

“  But  this  is  not  Mary  Sanderson’s  grave — is  it  ?” 
said  the  stranger. 

j 

“  To  be  sure  it  is.  Do  you  take  me  for  a  knave  ?” 

The  stranger  tore  the  ragged  sleeve  of  his  coat,  and 


CHARLES  CLIFFORD. 


257 


loosened  something  from  his  arm.  It  was  a  bracelet 
of  hair,  with  a  golden  clasp.  He  held  it  towards  the 
sexton,  and  on  the  bright  plate  the  latter  read  the 
words,  “  Mary  Sanderson.”  The  man  started,  and 
asked  where  he  got  it. 

“  I)o  not  ask  me,”  replied  the  other.  “  Will  you 
place  the  headstone  over  this  grave  ?” 

The  sexton  nodded  assent. 

“  Then  put  this  under  it.  I  will  not  carry  it  to 
mock  and  torture  me.  Let  the  pure  one  who  gave  it 
to  me,  receive  it  from  him  who  proved  unworthy  of 
her  gift.  Remember,  if  you  keep  it,  you  will  have  to 
answer  to  a  Higher  Power  than  yourself  or  me.”  He 
left  the  bracelet  and  disappeared. 

It  was  Charles  Clifford. 

We  have  compared  the  effects  of  intoxication  to  the 
sting  of  a  serpent.  May  we  not  liken  those  who  go 
among  the  haunts  of  vice  to  rescue  the  helpless  ine¬ 
briate,  to  those  who  pass  their  lives  in  the  desert, 
that  they  may  relieve  the  weary  and  the  wounded  ? 
Clifford  met  with  such.  He  became  a  member  of  the 
order  whose  thousands  are  extending  over  our  land, 
and  the  world.  He  remained  firm  to  their  principles, 
and  was  most  active  in  their  cause.  But  he  never  re¬ 
gained  his  former  cheerfulness.  When  seated  in  the 
Division  room,  or  in  the  society  of  his  companions,  a 
shade  of  sorrow  was  often  observed  to  pass  across  his 
brow.  Many  thought  that  his  health  had  been  im¬ 
paired  ;  but  those  who  knew  him  best,  believed,  that 
at  such  times  he  was  thinking  of  his  mother  who  had 
ong  since  died,  and  of  Mary  Sanderson. 


JAMES  BLAIR; 


OR, 

LOVE  IN  THE  YALLEY  OP  THE  JUNIATA. 


By  Grace  Greenwood. 


CHAPTER  I. 


Scene  First. — A 
moonlight  night, 
in  a  forest,  in  the 
northern  part  of 
Virginia;  many 
lights  gleaming  in 
the  distance.  But 
...  what  am  I  about ! 
I  beg  your  pardon,  my  sober 
minded  reader,  for  any  thea¬ 
trical  commencement.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  is,  I  just 
“  dropped  in”  at  the  play,  the 
other  night,  and  my  head  is 
even  now  full  of  the  vain 
things  which  I  there  saw  and  heard.  But  I  should 
not  seek  to  give  stage  effect  to  the  really  authentic 

J258) 


i 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


259 


tale  which  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you,  and  which 
I  only  desire  to  “  Tell  as  it  was  told  to  me.”  So,  to 
begin  again,  soberly  and  in  order; — it  was  a  glorious 
June  night,  some  fifteen  years  ago,  when  Henry 
Elbridge,  the  younger  son  of  a  rich  and  aristocratic 
Virginian  family,  rode  up  a  rocky  pathway,  which 
'wound  through  one  of  the  magnificent  forests  of  the 
“Old  Dominion.”  He  was  superbly  mounted,  and 
followed,  at  a  little  distance,  by  a  black  groom.  Sud¬ 
denly,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  he  checked  his  horse, 
and  an  exclamation  of  wmndering  delight  escaped  his 
lips.  The  forest  far  around  him  was  lit  up  as  for  a 
festival ;  and  a  multitude  of  snowy  tents  were  pitched 
beneath  the  trees,  gleaming  through  the  over-hang¬ 
ing  branches.  A  crowd  of  people,  of  all  ages  and 
conditions,  wrere  lifting  up  the  voice  of  prayer  and 
praise  in  that  grandest  cathedral  of  nature’s  God — 
the  gorgeous  wood,  with  its  lofty,  rugged  pillars,  and 
its  thousand  “sounding  aisles.” 

It  was  that  most  unique,  that  most  wildly-beautiful 
of  scenes,  a  metliodist  camp-meeting  at  night.  It  was 
entirely  a  new  spectacle  to  our  hero ;  for,  though 
born  in  Virginia,  he  had  been  educated  in  New  Eng¬ 
land,  having  but  just  graduated  at  Harvard.  He  was 
an  ardent,  enthusiastic,  intellectual  young  man,  with 
a  heart  peculiarly  impressible  in  matters  of  love  and 
religion.  He  had  been  led  by  curiosity  alone  to  wit¬ 
ness  the  scene  which  he  now  contemplated  with  so 
lively  an  interest. 

At  the  close  of  the  prayer  and  hymn  he  dismounted, 
and  approached  nearer  to  the  preacher’s  stand — a  rude 

18 


260 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


platform  erected  on  the  highest  part  of  the  grounds. 
Taking  rather  a  retired  position,  he  stood  carelessly 
leaning  against  a  patriarchal  oak,  and  awaited  the 
evening’s  discourse.  The  preacher,  the  celebrated 

B - ,  had  not  yet  arrived ;  but  presently  a  hush  of 

respectful  expectation  fell  upon  the  assembly,  as  a 
man  of  imposing  form,  and  massive  features,  ascended 
the  platform.  He  commenced  in  a  manner  calmly 
impressive,  but  soon  his  impassioned  and  overmaster¬ 
ing  eloquence  awoke  within  him,  in  might  and  gran¬ 
deur.  His  dark  eve  flashed  with  fervid  zeal — his 
every  word  seemed  freighted  with  solemn  meaning — 
the  very  tones  of  his  voice  pierced  the  heart,  sword¬ 
like,  through  the  double  armour  of  pride  and  unbelief. 
His  theme  was  the  crucifixion  of  our  Lord  ;  and,  as 
he  proceeded,  the  groans  of  the  strong  man,  and  the 
cries  of  women,  attested  the  power  of  the  orator  and 
the  subject.  Bound  by  the  mighty  spell  of  truth, 
genius-revealed,  stood  young  Elbridge,  the  burning 
exhortations  of  the  speaker  falling  like  a  storm  of  fire 
on  his  overwhelmed  and  shrinking  spirit.  Every  sin, 
every  error,  every  unworthy  act  of  his  life,  seemed 
passing  in  dread  review  before  him — his  features  be¬ 
came  convulsed,  his  head  bowed,  and  his  breast  • 
heaved  tumultuously.  He  seemed  to  behold  the 
mocking  trial  of  our  blessed  Master — the  crowm  of 
thorns,  the  crimsoned  scourge,  the  spear,  the  cup  of 
gall; — all  the  human  suffering,  and  divine  meekness 
of  that  life-giving  death ;  and,  while  his  heart  was 
rent  with  anguish  unspeakable,  a  flood  of  despair,  like 
a  wave  from  the  sea  of  eternal  wrath,  swept  over  his 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


261 


soul;  he  raised  his  clasped  hands,  cried  frantically, 
For  me  He  died  !  for  me,  for  me  /”  and  fell  prostrate. 
He  had  swooned 

When  he  revived,  he  was  lying  in  a  tent,  his  head 
supported  by  his  servant ;  and  beside  him  stood  the 
preacher,  whose  exhortations  had  so  stirred  up  the 
great  deeps  of  his  soul.  Then  followed  words  of  hope, 
and  peace,  and  pleading  prayer;  and,  ere  the  morn¬ 
ing  dawned,  a  new  life,  mystical  and  holy,  awoke 
within  the  bosom  of  the  young  convert;  a  sweet,  con¬ 
fiding,  childlike  sense  of  reconciliation  with  the  fa¬ 
ther,  thrilled  his  heart ;  and  the  joy  of  the  saint,  sud¬ 
den,  “  unutterable,  and  full  of  glory,”  burst  upon  him 
like  a  tropical  day. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  the  storm  of  opposition  which 
was  raised  in  the  proud  family  of  the  Elbridges, 
when,  a  few*  weeks  subsequent  to  the  event  narrated 
in  the  foregoing  chapter,  Henry  announced  his  inten 
tion  of  preparing  for  the  ministry,  after  having  been 
admitted  to  the  church.  The  young  enthusiast  mildly, 
but  firmly,  resisted  both  entreaty  and  ridicule— -his 
patrician  mother’s  and  sister’s  reproaches,  and  the 
sneers  of  his  father  and  brothers,  at  “ranting,  canting, 
beggarly,  method ist  parsons.”  With  a  strength  and 


26*2 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


determination  which  amazed  those  who  would  detei 
him,  he  resolutely  trod  the  rugged  and  undeviating 
path  of  duty.  Diligently  and  prayerfully  he  fitted 
himself  for  his  sacred  office;  and  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
three  was  stationed  as  a  regular  preacher,  in  a  roman¬ 
tic  part  of  the  valley  of  the  Juniata.  He  had  heard 
much  of  the  natural  beauty  of  that  portion  of  the 
country,  and  was  all  ardour  and  hopefulness  in  con 
templation  of  his  pleasant  duties,  as  the  shepherd 
who  should  watch  and  lead  the  flock  of  the  faithful, 
scattered  through  those  wfild  regions.  But  alas  !  he 
soon  found  that  he  had  dropped  down  among  a  set  of 
semi-barbarians,  in  manners,  prejudices,  habits,  and 
religion.  Sensitive  and  refined,  reared  in  luxury, 
and  of  a  delicate  physical  organization,  what  course 
did  the  young  clergyman  pursue,  when  made  aware 
of  the  erroneous  ideas  he  had  formed  of  the  location 
to  which  he  had  been  appointed  ?  Why,  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  labour  as  a  missionary ,  ceaselessly,  and 
ardently,  until  a  better  state  of  things  was  established, 
in  his  congregation  at  least.  This  he  found  to  con¬ 
sist  almost  altogether  of  the  ranting  methodists,  whose 
fits  of  religious  feeling  were  accompanied  hy  shout¬ 
ings  and  violent  convulsions.  In  their  meetings  it 
was  not  deemed  out  of  order  for  singing,  praying, 
and  exhorting,  to  go  on  simultaneously;  and  he  or 
she  was  the  better  saint,  whose  voice  rose  loudest  or 
shrillest.  Gently  and  gradually,  by  the  influences 
of  love  and  reason,  did  Elbridge  bring  about  his 
much-needed  reform ;  and  before  a  year  had  passed,  a 
decent  quietness  reigned  over  his  religious  meetings. 


263 


JAMES  BLAIR. 

I 

There  was  one  female  preacher,  however,  whose 
frequent  and  singular  exhortations  continued  a  source 
of  considerable  annoyance  to  Eibridge.  In  her  “  hold¬ 
ings  forth,”  she  invariably  began  by  a  powerful  ap¬ 
peal  to  the  world’s  people,  expressing  a  fervent  desire 
to  behold  “  a  harpoon  from  the  quiver  of  gospel  truth 
piercing  their  stubborn  hearts,”  and  closed  with  an 
admonition  to  the  brethren  and  sisters  “  never  to  turn 
aside  to  pluck  the  flowers  that  grow  in  nater’s  gar¬ 
den,”  but  to  “  persevere  until  they  should  land  on  the 
other  side  of  everlasting  deliverance,”  &c.,  &c. 

Poor  Eibridge  found  it  vain  for  him  to  attempt 
putting  a  spell  upon  a  woman’s  tongue  when  “  set  on 
fire  of”  zeal. 

There  was  also  one  of  the  brethren,  who  offered  a 
stout  breast  to  the  flood  of  innovation.  This  was  a 
good  old  father  in  Israel,  who  had  for  many  years 
been  a  class-leader,  and  was,  therefore,  a  privileged 
person.  He  rejoiced  in  a  bon-vivant-ish  rotundity  of 
figure,  and  a  round,  funny  face,  irresistibly  laughter 
exciting  in  one  of  his  calling.  His  seat  was  directly 
in  front  of  the  desk,  whence  his  responses  were  most 
frequent  and  inopportune.  At  every  “  Amen”  which 
he  uttered  with  a  loud,  sonorous  voice,  he  brought 
his  heavy  walking-stick  to  the  floor,  in  a  most  strik¬ 
ing  and  emphatic  manner.  Having  been  interrupt¬ 
ed  and  confused  until  his  patience  was  exhausted, 
our  hero  of  the  white  neck-cloth  sought  his  hearer, 
and,  with  kind  persuasion,  and  by  reasoning  against 
his  mal-apropos  responses,  wrung  from  him  a  promise 
of  future  forbearance.  It  happened  that  Elbridge’s 


264 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


next  discourse  was  a  remarkably  fine  one,  and  it  was 
with  evident  difficulty,  from  the  first,  that  the  “  stout 
gentleman”  controlled  his  amenity.  Warmer  and 
warmer  waxed  the  preacher,  more  and  more  eloquent, 
until  it  was  too  much  for  methodist  nature  to  bear, 
and  the  old  man  brought  down  his  stick,  louder  than 
ever,  and  shouted  boldly,  “  Amen,  hit  or  miss !” 

I  need  hardly  say  that  Elbridge  did  not  attempt  to 
“  deal”  with  his  “  unruly  member.” 


CHAPTER  III. 

When  Elbridge  had  been  a  few  months  in  the  vai 
ley  of  the  Juniata,  he  was  called  to  administer  spirit¬ 
ual  consolation  to  a  woman  dying  of  consumption. 
A  small  lad,  with  a  slight  Irish  brogue,  and  eyes 
swollen  with  weeping,  poorly  but  cleanly  dressed,  con¬ 
ducted  him  two  or  three  miles.up  the  valley,  to  a  house 
built  of  logs,  but  as  neat  as  a  cottage  ornee,  and  nested 
in  the  most  luxuriant  shrubbery.  Elbridge  could 
scarcely  believe  this  to  be  the  home  of  James  Blair,  the 
wretched  inebriate,  whom  he  had  often  remarked 
staggering  from  bar-room  doors,  or  lying  by  the  way- 
side  in  a  state  of  brutal  intoxication. 

When  he  entered,  the  dying  woman  was  sitting  up¬ 
right  in  bed,  supported  by  a  young  girl,  whom  he  had 
before  seen  at  his  meetings,  and  noticed  for  the  Ma- 


•uitih  ’sax  ao  Hxraa 


(365) 


\ 


\ 


’  * 

* 


* 


/ 


4 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


267 


donna-like  sweetness  and  purity  of  her  countenance. 
This  was  Elizabeth  Blair,  the  eldest  daughter  of  the 
house.  Her  sister,  an  exceedingly  beautiful  girl  of 
sixteen  or  seventeen,  stood  at  her  side,  weeping  pas¬ 
sionately.  The  husband  and  father,  for  once  in  his 
right  mind,  was  kneeling  at  the  bed-side,  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  whole  frame  quivering 

with  convulsive  sobs.  Opposite  stood  Dr.  N - ,  a 

young  physician,  late  from  Harrisburgh,  already  par¬ 
tially  known  to  Elbridge. 

To  his  joy,  the  clergyman  found  that  his  ministra¬ 
tions  were  only  needed  by  the  husband  and  children; 
the  wife  and  mother  awaited  with  fearless  and  saint¬ 
like  serenity  the  swift  coming  of  the  angel  of  death. 
In  the  brief  conversation  which  he  was  enabled  to 
have  with  her,  he  saw  that  she  was  remarkably  intel¬ 
ligent  for  one  of  her  station,  and  possessed  of  the  clear¬ 
est  and  truest  understanding  of  spiritual  things. 

At  the  close  of  a  simple  and  fervent  prayer,  the  suf¬ 
ferer  beckoned  her  younger  children  to  draw  nearer, 
kissed  them  tenderly,  and  faintly  murmured,  “  Eliza¬ 
beth,  your  mother — now.”  Then,  for  the  first  time, 
James  Blair  looked  up,  and,  in  a  voice  husky  with  re¬ 
morseful  anguish,  exclaimed,  “  Forgive  me,  Mary, 
before  you  go!” 

Alas !  the  power  of  speech  had  left  the  poor,  wronged 
wife,  but  she  stretched  out  her  thin  hand,  and  laid  it 
tenderly  on  the  head  of  her  repentant  husband,  and 
then  let  it  glide  down  upon  his  neck.  He  understood 
the  action,  and  drew  closer  to  her ;  she  bent  forward, 
pressed  her  cold  lips  to  his,  and  so  died. 


268 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


On  his  return  to  his  boarding-house,  Elbridge,  as¬ 
certained,  to  his  surprise,  that  the  family  with  whom 
he  was  domesticated  were  nearly  related  to  the  Blairs. 
Philip  Denny,  his  host,  the  only  brother  of  the  late 
Mrs.  Blair,  was  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  in  the  valley ; 
but,  though  violently  religious,  had  the  reputation  of 
great  penuriousness.  He  had  but  one  child,  a  daugh¬ 
ter,  and,  as  she  is  to  be  no  unimportant  character  in 
this  “simple  story,”  it  is  time  she  was  known  to 
my  reader.  So,  my  dear  sir,  or  madame,  allow  me 
to  present  to  you  Miss  Katherine  Denny,  the 
beauty  and  belle  for  many  miles  up  and  down  the 
valley  of  the  Juniata.  She  was  a  superb  creature — 
a  perfect  Irish  Juno — with  the  queenliest  of  forms, 
the  haughtiest  of  gaits,  and  the  blackest  eyes  con¬ 
ceivable,  out  of  which  flashed  a  fire,  beautiful  but 
dangerous,  like  lightning  from .  a  midnight  cloud. 
Katherine  had  been  for  some  while  the  leader  and  life 
of  gay  society  in  that  region,  and  had  won  for  herself 
the  name  of  being  an  arch-coquette.  But  soon  after 
the  advent  of  that  rara  avis ,  a  minister,  young,  rich, 
and  handsome,  she  became,  to  the  great  dismav  of 
her  worldly  admirers,  suddenly  serious.  She  cut  the 
vain  bows  from  her  bonnet,  and  the  equally  vain  beaux 
at  her  side;  she  joined  the  “class”  spiritual  in  the 
conference  room,  and  forsook  the  class  Terpsichorean, 
in  the  ball-room  of  “  The  Golden  Horn.”  She  walked 
demurely  to  meeting,  and  sung  hymns,  and  talked 
theology  with  the  young  minister,  until  his  suscepti¬ 
ble  heart  was  affected  to  the  degree  that  he  found  him¬ 
self  preaching  with  her  commendations  in  view,  and 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


269 


yet  blushing  and  stammering  painfully  when  he 
marked  her  great  black  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  ser¬ 
mon-time. 

She  was  thus  “  in  the  full  tide  of  successful  experi¬ 
ment,”  when,  with  the  strange  want  of  tact  which  the 
most  artful  women  often  display  when  their  hearts  are 
touched,  she  grew  impatient  of  the  slow-and-sure  po¬ 
licy,  and,  resolving  to  conclude  her  conquest  by  a 
coup-de-main ,  she  suddenly  made  her  debut  as  an  ex- 
horter! 

She  proved  herself  possessed  of  rare  talent,  of  abso¬ 
lute  genius  as  a  speaker.  She  talked  like  an  inspired 
prophetess,  and  electrified  her  audience  with  her  won¬ 
derful  bursts  of  eloquence.  Her  warnings  and  denun¬ 
ciations  were  at  times  fearfully  grand,  and  produced 
the  most  striking  effect  upon  her  impressible  hearers. 
But,  as  for  Elbridge,  she  had  mistaken  her  man. 
Though,  as  an  orthodox  method ist,  he  advocated  wo¬ 
men’s  religious  rights,  and  believed  in  the  spiritual 
equality  of  the  sexes,  his  natural  delicate  sensitive¬ 
ness,  and  his  early  prejudices,  were  certainly  opposed 
to  the  unmaidenly  course  which  Katherine  Denny 
was  pursuing.  He  was  pained,  disappointed,  ill  at 
ease  every  way,  but  did  not  presume  to  advise  against 
that  which  he  believed  the  result  of  an  imperious 
sense  of  duty  on  the  part  of  the  beautiful  religious  en¬ 
thusiast.  One  Monday,  while  taking  his  morning 
walk,  musing  on  these  things,  and  striving  to  recon¬ 
cile  old  tastes  with  newly  formed-principles,  he  over¬ 
heard  part  of  a  conversation  between  two  of  his  church- 
members,  who  were  at  work  in  a  field  by  the  road- 


270 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


side.  There  had  been  a  meeting  of  exciting  interest 
the  night  previous,  and  one  of  the  men  said  to  his 
companion — 

“  Did  you  know  that  Tom  Henderson  had  got 
religion  ?” 

“  You  don’t  say  so !  How?” 

“Why,  he  happened  in  at  the  meeting  last  evening, 
just  for  deviltry ;  but  when  Katherine  Denny  come 
to  free  her  mind,  he  grew  dreadfully  religious,  and  lay 
in  the  power  all  night  long.” 

Now  Tom  Henderson  was  known  through  all 
that  region  as  the  wildest,  prqfanest  jockey  and  fro- 
licker;  and  though  good-natured  and  good-looking 
withal,  the  plague  and  pest  of  the  honest  and 
peacefully-inclined.  Here  was,  indeed,  cause  for  re¬ 
joicing,  and  Elbridge  felt  rebuked  for  his  little  faith, 
and  worldly  fastidiousness.  “  Dear  Katherine,”  he  so¬ 
liloquized,  “  why  should  I  question  your  right  to  exer¬ 
cise  all  your  gifts  in  doing  good  !  If  your  words  have 
carried  conviction  to  the  heart  of  this  one  sinner,  great 
is  your  reward  for  the  sacrifice  of  your  womanly  deli¬ 
cacy.  But  poor  Henderson  may  be  standing  in  want 
of  spiritual  consolation  :  I  will  go  to  him.” 

On  reaching  the  abode  of  the  Hendersons,  the  cleri¬ 
cal  visiter  was  directed  by  a  staring,  red-haired  girl, 
to  a  back  yard,  where  he  found  the  young  convert 
seeking  “  consolation”  in  a  cock-fight. 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


271 


✓ 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Before  progressing  with  my  story,  I  most  tell  my 
reader  something  more  of  the  Blairs.  So,  reader  pour 
mieux  sauter ,  James  Blair,  an  Irishman  of  education, 
and  some  property,  married  the  girl  of  his  heart,  and 
came  immediately  to  this  country.  Having  an  eye 
for  the  picturesque,  he  purchased  a  farm  on  that  love¬ 
liest  of  American  rivers,  the  Juniata.  But  James 
Blair,  bred  to  a  mercantile  life,  had  no  “  faculty”  for 
farming;  then  he  met  with  sickness,  losses,  and  dis¬ 
couragements,  and — oh,  ’tis  the  old,  old  story,  became 
a  drunkard,  and  all  was  over  with  him.  But  Mary, 
poor  Mary  Blair,  was  a  jewel  of  a  wife,  for  a  saint  or 
a  sinner — only  she  would  have  lasted  longer  if  her 
“Jamie”  had  had  more  of  the  former,  and  less  of  the 
latter  in  his  composition.  But,  as  she  wasted  away 
in  her  patient  hroken-heartedness,  there  was  one  to 
take  her  place.  Elizabeth  Blair  was  one  of  those 
rare  characters  of  whom  “  the  world  is  not  worthy.” 
A  spectacle  for  angels  was  her  life  of  unobtrusive,  un¬ 
wearying,  unmurmuring  goodness.  From  the  age 
of  eighteen,  when  her  mother’s  health  failed  utterly, 
to  her  twenty-first  year,  the  period  w7hen  she  was  in 
troduced  to  my  reader,  she  had,  by  her  own  labours, 

clothed  and  fed  her  father  and  his  family.  In  house- 

•/ 

hold  duties,  and  the  care  of  the  invalid  mother,  she 
was  assisted  by  her  sister  somewhat ;  but  she  alone 


272 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


was  the  hope,  the  dependence,  the  “  light  in  a  dark 
place,”  the  sustaining  pillar,  the  animating  soul  of 
that  sad,  neglected  family.  She  was  school-teacher, 
rnantua-maker,  milliner,  tailoress,—  all  things  for  the 
good  and  comfort  of  those  she  loved.  Dear  Elizabeth  ! 
when  I  remember  your  meek  piety,  your  energy, 
patience,  sweetness,  and  courage,  I  were  humbled  at 
the  very  thought  of  you,  did  I  not  know  that  there  is 
no  reproach  in  your  goodness. 

But  in  her  mother’s  last  illness  the  noble  girl  had 
over-tasked  herself ;  and,  after  hard  struggling  against 
disease,  she  became  alarmingly  ill,  with  a  nervous 
fever.  Again,  weeping  more  bitterly  than  ever,  went 
little  Jamie  for  the  minister,  whom  he  met  returning 
from  the  parochial  visit  narrated  at  the  close  of  the 
last  chapter.  Elbridge  turned  pale  at  the  intelli¬ 
gence  which  the  boy  sobbed  forth,  and  accompanied 
him  immediately  home.  He  found  Elizabeth  mani¬ 
festing  the  same  serene  resignation  which  had  hal¬ 
lowed  the  deathbed  of  her  mother.  Before  he  left, 

however,  Dr.  N - -  arrived,  and  pronounced  her 

better,  and  the  angel  of  hope  revisited  that  desolate 
home.  Slowly,  very  slowly,  came  back  strength  and 
health  to  that  overwrought  spirit  and  frame ;  and 
pleasant  and  profitable  were  the  young  clergyman’s 
frequent  visits  to  the  interesting  invalid.  He  was 
sometimes  accompanied  by  Katherine,  who  professed 
to  love  her  cousin  fervently ;  and  he  did  not  fear  for 
his  heart,  because  he  constantly  encountered  there 
the  young  physician,  to  whom  it  was  rumoured  Eliza¬ 
beth  Blair  was  betrothed. 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


273 


At  last,  the  invalid  had  so  far  recovered  as  to  appear 
at  meeting.  Pale,  very  pale,  she  was ;  but  loveliei 
than  ever  thought  those  who  loved  her. 

Elbridge  saw  that  it  now  would  be  but  proper  for 
him  to  make  his  visits  less  frequent,  and  he  did  so. 
Then  was  he  haunted  by  a  strange  feeling  of  unrest — 
he  forgot  his  engagements — he  talked  to  himself — he 
grew  careless  of  his  dress — he  lost  his  appetite ; — in 
short,  he  was  in  love  ;  but  not  with  Katherine  Denny ; 
oh  no,  not  with  Katherine  Denny. 

When  our  hero  became  aware  of  his  dangerous 
malady,  he  began  treating  it  with  promptness  and 
severity.  He  first  prescribed  for  himself  total  absence 
from  a  certain  abode  of  beauty  and  worth — love’s  own 
log  temple,  built  in  the  wilderness. 

A  dead  failure !  for  did  he  not  see  that  face,  deli¬ 
cately  flushed  with  returning  health,  looking  up  to 
him  with  sweet  seriousness,  every  blessed  Sunday  ? 

Matters  were  in  this  interesting  state  when,  while 
returning  one  Sabbath  evening  from  a  neighbouring 
town,  where  he  had  been  preaching,  a  storm  com¬ 
pelled  him  to  seek  a  night’s  shelter  in  a  farmhouse 
by  the  way.  Soon  after,  who  should  ride  up  but 

Dr.  N - .  He  came  in,  dripping  with  the  rain,  and 

laughing  in  his  own  peculiar  and  joyous  manner. 

“  The  doctor,”  now  one  of  my  most  valuable  and 
reliable  of  friends,  was  one  you  might  see  once  and 
remember  always.  His  frank,  handsome,  heart-beam¬ 
ing  countenance  daguerreotyped  itself  inevitably 
upon  the  memory.  He  was  the  “  prince  of  good  felt 
lows,”  in  the  very  best  sense  of  the  term.  With  his 


274 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


freedom  of  mind,  warm,  unchecked  affections,  and 
hopeful,  cheerful  philosophy,  he  lived  up  to  the  full 
measure  of  life.  Once  or  twice  during  the  evening, 
as  his  fine  face  glowed  with  the  inspiration  of  some 
thought,  dashingly  beautiful,  or  exquisitely  grotesque, 
Elbridge  was  slightly  conscious  of  a  certain  unminis- 
terial  feeling,  known  to  the  world  as  jealousy ;  but 
he  coughed  it  down,  as  out  of  order,  being  the  sug 
gestion  of  a  “gentleman  in  black,”  not  “in  good  and 
regular  standing.” 

When  the  hour  for  retiring  came,  as  there  was  but 
one  “spare  bed,”  Elbridge  was  obliged  to  “turn  in” 
with  his  unconscious  rival.  Some  time  in  the  night 
the  doctor  awoke.  The  storm  had  passed,  and  the 
moon  was  shining  purely  pale  through  the  uncur¬ 
tained  window.  Above  him  bent  Elbridge,  vrith  his 
large,  luminous  eyes,  fixed  with  a  peculiar  and 
searching  expression  upon  his  face,  and  his  hand 
pressed  closely  against  his  heart. 

“What  the  deuce - !”  cried  the  startled  doctor. 

“  Hush,”  said  the  clergyman,  in  a  solemn  tone,  “I 
want  you  to  tell  me  the  truth.”' 

“  Well,  do  you  think  you  have  got  to  take  a  fellow 
by  the  heart  before  you  can  get  that !” 

“  Pardon  me,”  said  Elbridge,  but  without  remov¬ 
ing  his  hand,  “  I  have  to  ask  you  a  question  on  which 
my  life’s  happiness  depends.  Will  you  ansvrer  me 
truly  ?” 

“  I  will,  if  it  is  in  my  power.” 

“Do  you  love  Elizabeth  Blair?” 

“  Yes.” 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


275 


“  That  is  sufficient,”  said  Elbridge,  falling  back 
upon  his  pillow. 

“Sufficient,  is  it?”  said  N - ,  and  he  turned 

himself  wall- ward.  But,  presently,  his  good  feelings 
getting  the  etter  of  his  waggery,  he  continued  :  “  I 
do  love  Lizzie  Blair — that’s  a  stubborn  fact — love  her 
as  a  sister ;  but  if  it  will  be  any  comfort  to  you,  my 
dear  sir,  to  know  it,  long  before  I  ever  saw  her,  I 
bargained  myself  off  to  just  the  finest  girl  in  the 
Union.  So,  if  you  can  win  Elizabeth’s  love,  and 
deserve  it ,  I  bid  you  God-speed  !” 

In  the  morning,  Elbridge  unfortunately  found  him¬ 
self  oppressed  with  a  heavy  cold,  in  consequence  of 
his  exposure  to  the  preceding  evening’s  storm.  He 
was  really  ill,  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  the  next  day 
was  prostrate  with  inflamed  lungs.  He  recovered,  of 
course, — I  would  not  have  the  heart  to  choose  a  Paul 
Dombey  for  a  hero — but  only  after  weeks  of  severe 

suffering;  and  then.  Dr.  N - ,  who  had  been  his 

physician  and  constant  nurse,  gravely  assured  him 
that  he  must  abandon  preaching  altogether,  for  years 
to  come.  Oh,  it  was  a  bitter  moment  to  the  young 
clergyman  !  He  groaned  deeply,  and  bowed  his  face 
on  his  almost  transparent  hand ;  and,  when  he  at  last 
looked  up,  his  dark  eye-lashes  were  glistening  with 
tears.  Had  all  his  intense  longings,  his  hungering 
and  thirsting  after  opportunities  of  greater  usefumess 
in  that  most  holy  of  professions,  come  to  this ! 

‘While  yet  suffering  from  this  unexpected  trial,  a 
letter  was  brought  in,  which  he  read  aloud  to  the  doc¬ 
tor.  It  was  from  his  parents,  and  urged,  in  affection- 

19 


276 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


ate  terms,  his  immediate  return  home.  Their  eldest 
sons  were  travelling,  their  daughter  was  married,  and 
they  were  left  quite  alone. 

“  Really,  this  reconciliation  at  this,  time,  seems 
providential,”  remarked  the  doctor,  “  and  you  will 
surely  return  to  Virginia  as  soon  .as  you  have  suffi¬ 
cient  strength.” 

“Yes,  but  I  must  see  Elizabeth  before  I  go — I 
cannot  endure  this  terrible  suspense — my  life  seems 
balancing  on  a  thread.” 

“Well,  go  to  her,”  rejoined  the  doctor,  “she  is  a 
frank,  straight-forward  girl,  and  will  tell  you  the  truth 
without  your  taking  the  trouble  to  lay  your  hand  on 
her  heart.” 

“  But,  my  dear  N - ,  should  I  succeed  in  win 

ning  her  love,  I  sometimes  fear  I  shall  be  doing  her  an 
unkindness  in  taking  her  from  the  social  sphere  in 
which  she  has  always  moved ;  that  she  will  be  but  ill 
at  ease  in  the  society  of  my  family  and  friends.” 

“I  tell  you,  Elbridge,”  exclaimed  N - ,  “you 

either  don’t  half  deserve  our  Elizabeth,  or  you  don’t 
half  know  her.  As  your  wife ,  believe  me,  you  will 
have  reason  to  be  proud  of  her  in  any  circle  of 
American  society.  With  the  highest  natural  grace, 
elegance,  and  dignity,  she  has  any  amount  of  tact, 
and  adapted  ness,  and  is  fitted  for  any  sphere,  how¬ 
ever  exalted,  to  which  the  man  she  loves  may  raise 
her.  So  don’t  fear  introducing  her  to  your  aristo¬ 
cratic  connections,  she  will  make  her  own  way 
bravely.  But  here  we  are,  coolly  discussing  these 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


277 


matters,  when  heaven  only  knows  whether  the  girl 
will  have  you  at  all,  at  all.” 

And  it  seemed  a  doubtful  matter  for  some  time 
after.  As  soon  as  El  bridge  was  strong  enough,  he 
rode  up  to  the  Blairs’,  and  day  after  day  repeated  his 
visit.  But  there  w^as  Mary  Blair,  a  laughing,  teaz- 
ing,  gipsy  of  a  creature,  always  at  her  sister’s  side, 
and  Elbridge  was  suddenly  the  most  bashful  of  men. 
Finally,  calling  up  all  his  courage,  he  begged  her  to 
join  him  in  a  walk.  “  Certainly,  if  you  desire  it,” 
she  calmly  said,  and  tying  on  her  neat  sun-bonnet, 
was  soon  strolling  by  his  side.  For  some  moments 
the  poor  fellow  could  not  utter  a  syllable,  but  at  last 
let  his  warm,  honest  heart  speak  for  itself  in  these 
simplest  of  wrords  : — 

“  Elizabeth,  I  love  you,  ardently,  devotedly  ; — do 
you  return  my  affection?” 

“  Mr.  Elbridge,”  she  rejoined  in  a  voice  slightly 
tremulous,  “though  I  have  admired  and  revered,  I 
have  never  yet  presumed  to  love  you ;  but  if  the 
grateful  affection  of  a  poor,  uncultivated  girFlike  me 
can  add  to  your  happiness,  I  do  not  think  it  will  be 
long  withheld.” 

And  thus  th6y  parted. 

At  their  next  meeting,  Elizabeth,  suffering  her 
lover  to  retain  her  coy,  little  hand  in  his,  said  wbth  an 
enchanting  smile,  and  in  the  sweetest  of  tones,  “  1 
have  been  thinking  over  our  last  evening’s  conversa¬ 
tion,  and  looking  closely  into  my  heart,  and  I  find 
that  I  have  been  loving  you  all  along” 


278 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


CHAPTER  V. 

When  Elbridge  sought  James  Blair,  to  ask  of  him 
his  greatest  treasure,  an  affecting  scene  occurred. 
The  father  wept  tears  of  mingled  joy  and  sorrow. 
He  grieved  to  resign  his  noble  daughter,  but  was 
proud  of  the  honourable  connection  she  wTas  to  form. 
“To  one  thing  I  will  pledge  myself,”  he  said,  grasp¬ 
ing  the  hand  of  Elbridge,  “  your  wife  henceforth 
shall  never  be  ashamed  of  her  father  and  his  home. 
I  have  not  been  intoxicated  since  Mary  left  me,  and 
from  this  day,  not  one  drop  of  my  bane  shall  pass  my 
lips.”  And  he  kept  his  word. 

On  account  of  the  necessity  of  Elbridge’s  imme¬ 
diate  return  to  Virginia,  an  early  period  was  fixed  for 
the  wedding. 

One  morning,  a  day  or  twx>  previous  to  that  de¬ 
cided  upon  as  the  day  of  days,  Elbridge  was  riding 
slowly  home  from  a  visit  to  his  lady-love,  his  thoughts 
winged  with  golden  fancies,  and  his  heart  steeped  in 
sweet  recollections.  In  passing  through  a  wild  and 
rocky  glen,  he  was  startled  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Katherine  Denny.  She  was  deathly  pale,  and  her 
eye  was  blacker  and  more  fearfully  brilliant  than 
ever.  Elbridge  dismounted,  hung  the  bridle  on  his 
arm,  and  walking  up  by  her  side,  pleasantly  passed 
the  usual  compliments.  To  these  Katherine  made  no 
reply,  but  turning  abruptly,  and  fixing  a  gaze  of  in¬ 
tense  meaning  on  his  face,  said,  calmly — 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


.279 


“  And  so  you  are  to.  marry  Elizabeth  Blair  V* 

“  I  am,”  he  replied,  smiling. 

“It  is  a  happy  and  a  fortunate  circumstance  to 
her”  she  rejoined. 

“But  most  of  ail  to  me”  added  the  lover.  A  pause 
of  some  moments.  Then  Katherine  continued,  in  a 
deep,  impressive  tone — 

“  Mr.  Elbridge,  I  love  my  cousin,  Elizabeth,  as  an 
own  sister,  but,  stronger  than  my  love  for  her,  than 
my  family  pride,  is  my  sense  of  the  duty  I  owe  to 
my  pastor,  to  my  church,  to  religion  itself,  and  I  must 
warn  you  before  it  is  too  late.” 

“Good  heavens!”  cried  Elbridge,  “what  do  you 
mean  ?” 

“Tell  me,”  she  replied,  “did  not  Dr.  N - ad¬ 

vise  you  to  this  marriage  ?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Strongly  ?” 

“Very  strongly.” 

“  Then,  are  you  blind  ?  are  you  mad  ?”  she  ex¬ 
claimed.  “  Can  you  not  see  the  trap  laid  for  you  ? 
He  would  not  marry  the  poor  girl,  the  drunkard’s 
daughter,  and  puts  her  off  upon  you  in  his  calculating 
villany.  Beware !” 

She  then  turned  and  ran  swiftly  up  the  hill-side  at 
her  left.  Once  she  paused  on  a  rock,  many  feet  above 
him,  and  while  the  wind  bore  back  the  dark  hair  from 
her  white  cheek  and  brow,  she  stood  like  a  very 
sibyl, *  and,  stretching  her  hand  towards  him,  cried, 


*  See  Initial  Letter  to  Chapter  I. 


‘28  Q 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


solemnly,  “  you  are  warned — remember  !”  and  disap¬ 
peared  amid  the  thick  brushwood. 

Elbridge  stood  transfixed  with  amazement  and 
horror,  while  the  blood  ran  cold  through  every  vein. 
A  faintness  came  over  him,  and  he  leaned  for  support 
against  his  horse.  But  presently  he  lifted  his  head 
and  smiled  a  proud,  happy  smile.  “  I  will  believe  in 
my  Elizabeth,”  he  murmured,  “as  I  believe  in  that 
heaven  whose  own  goodness  and  purity  are  written 
in  every  line  of  her  sweet  face.”  And  he  went  his 
way  with  a  heart  strong  in  faith,  and  richer  than  ever 
in  love. 

“  Dear  Elizabeth,”  said  Elbridge,  at  their  next 
meeting,  “  if  you  have  not  yet  invited  the  guests  to 
our  wedding,  there  is  one  of  your  relatives  I  must  ask 
you  to  exclude — Katherine  Denny.” 

“  What !  dear  Kate,  my  only  cousin  !  Why  is  this, 
Henry  ?” 

“  I  will  tell  you  some  time, — at  present  grant  my 
request,  and  trust  me  for  my  reasons.” 

“  If  it  is  your  wash,  I  promise,”  she  said,  turning 
aside  to  hide  her  emotion. 

I  will  not  bore  my  reader  with  a  description  of  the 
wedding,  They  were  married,  and  started  directly 
for  Virginia. 

Mary  Blair,  who  seemed  to  possess  a  goodly  por¬ 
tion  of  her  sister’s  spirit,  cheerfully  took  charge  of 
her  father’s  family. 

Great  was  the  grief  of  Elbridge’s  attached  parish¬ 
ioners  at  the  loss  of  their  faithful  pastor,  and  he  is  yet 
remembered  by  them  with  reverence  and  affection. 


AMES  BLAIR. 


281 


The  morning  after  his  marriage,  Elbridge  ac¬ 
quainted  his  wife  with  his  memorable  interview  with 
her  cousin  in  the  glen. 

“It  is  well  you  did  not  tell  me  this  at  the  time,” 
she  said. 

“  Why,  my  love  ?” 

“  I  never  should  have  married  you,  had  you  done 
so.” 

As  for  Katherine  Denny,  she  soon  after  lost,  unac¬ 
countably,  her  religious  zeal,  “  backslid”  to  her  belle- 
hood,  and  finally  “  astonished  the  natives”  by  a  run¬ 
away  match  with  Tom  Henderson. 

********* 

I  think  I  cannot  better  close  my  story,  than  by 

quoting  part  of  a  letter  from  my  friend  Dr.  N - ,  to 

whom  I  had  applied  for  information  of  the  after-fate  of 
some  of  my  characters. 

“  The  Elbridges  had  been  married  some  four  or 
five  years,”  he  writes,  “  wThen  I  visited  them  with 
my  wife,  at  their  home  in  Virginia.  We  found  them 
living  happily  and  harmoniously  with  the  parents, 
brother,  and  widowed  sister  of  Elbridge,  in  the  very 
midst  of  his  “  aristocratic  connexions.”  Without 
being  essentially  changed,  Elizabeth  Elbridge  had 
become  truly  a  magnificent  woman.  Her  beauty  was 
heightened  to  greater  delicacy  by  habits  of  elegance 
and  rendered  striking  by  rich  and  tasteful  attire.  Her 
sweet  face  was  softly  shadowed  by  a  constant  care 
for  poor  Henry’s  health,  which  I  found  was  not  yet 
firmly  established.  She  had  then  one  child,  a  boy, 
and  her  brother  “Jamie,”  grown  a  tall,  fine  looking 

» 


282 


JAMES  BLAIR. 


lad,  was  with  her.  She  was  an  admirable  hostess,  and 
I  met  many  agreeable  and  distinguished  people  at 

her  dinner-parties.  There  was  Senator  - ,  and 

Judge  - - ,  and  a  batch  of  lesser  honourables. 

“  She  informed  me  (for  I  had  been  some  time  ab¬ 
sent  from  my  old  location)  that  her  sister  Mary  had 
married  an  intelligent  young  farmer,  and  was  living 
with  her  father  in  a  neat  white  cottage  on  the  old 
place. 

“  Elbridge  informed  me  that  his  rustic  bride  had 
won  the  love  and  respect  of  his  relatives  at  once  ; — 
that  she  had  applied  herself  diligently  to  study,  and 
had  already  made  up  for  the  deficiencies  in  her  early 
education. 

“‘And  I  have  found/  continued  Elbridge,  ‘that  all 
things  are  possible  to  woman,  when  she  loves  with 
fervour  and  devotion.’  ” 

Moore,  in  one  of  his  poetical,  romances,  places  his 
princely  hero  amid  roses  and  enchantments,  in  the 
vale  of  Cashmere, — but  for  a  simple  method ist  par¬ 
son,  I  think  I  have  had  my  share  of  romance  and 
poetry, — Love  in  the  Valley  of  the  Juniata. 


CoRIJTNE. 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


By  Mas.  Mary  B.  Horton. 


“All  are  merry,  all  are  happy,  all  are  loved,  in 
this  great  city,  but  one  unfortunate !  All  happy,  all 
gay!  And  I,  with  spirit  loving  all  things  beautiful, 
longing  for  companionship  with  the  gentle  and  re¬ 
fined,  with  the  knowledge  burning  within,  that  I 

(283) 


284 


KARL  AND  CORTNNE. 


might  adorn  the  circle  of  intelligence,  so  distant  from 
the  sphere  I  move  in,  I  must  live,  and  grieve  and  die, 
in  this  pent-up  atmosphere,  with  no  name  in  the 
world’s  history,  no  place  in  any  mortal’s  memory !” 

Oh  !  the  bitterness  of  that  gifted  mind — the  crush 
ing  hopelessness  of  that  lonely  lot!  Worse  than  the 
bed  of  languishing  was  the  sickness  which  filled  that 
soul;  worse  than  death,  far  worse,  the  coldness  which 
w^as  creeping  over  that  rich  heart ! 

A  young  girl  sat  by  the  window  of  a  low  dwelling, 
in  a  crowded  street.  She  was  a  foreigner,  with  the 
dark  rich  beauty  of  her  native  land  triumphant  through 
the  gloom  of  heavy  sadness  which  rested  on  her  elo¬ 
quent  face.  She  sat  with  her  head  drooping,  and  her 
beautiful  hands  clasped — a  picture  of  hopelessness, 
lovely  even  in  its  colouring  of  abandonment  to  the 
bitter  hour. 

Lonely  and  touching  was  that  sorrowing  one ;  and 
when  a  voice  from  a  bed  in  one  corner  of  the  room 
faintly  called  “Corinne,”  the  struggle  she  made  to 
overcome  the  oppression  of  her  spirit,  so  she  might 
answer  the  call,  composedly  gave  her  high  brow  a 
holier  charm,  and  made  her  seem,  in  that  poor  dwell¬ 
ing,  like  a  mortal  type  of  those  who  are  the  invisible 
agents  of  heavenly  mercy. 

That  was  indeed  an  humble  room — a  very  humble 
room  for  genius  and  beauty  to  make  a  home  of!  No 
birds  w7ere  there — no  flowers — no  music  from  hearts 
or  lips  !  Sickness  was  there,  and  gloom,  old  age,  and 
fretfulness,  shadows  and  sigh§!  The  only  sunshine 
there,  was  the  young  girl,  in  her  patient  care  of  her 


I 


KARL  AND  CORINNE.  285 

sick  mother:  she  never  complained  of  that.  The 
greatest  shadow  on  the  hearth,  was  that  of  an  old 
man,  sullenly  brooding  over  by-gone  days;  an  old 
man  withered  by  the  going  out  of  fiery  youth,  when 
there  was  no  other,  inner  life,  to  give  a  charm  and 
freshness  to  the  aged  brow.  That  shadow  was  ever 
on  the  hearth — her  mother’s  wandering  words  ever 
in  her  ear.  Why  wonder  that  the  lonely  girl  gave 
vent  sometimes  to  the  bitter  tide  flooding  her  heart; 
that  she  pined  for  sympathy,  as  a  weary  and  fainting 
traveller  in  a  strange  land  ? 

The  morning  upon  which  that  sad  soliloquy  was 
breathed,  when  the  heart  of  the  spiritually-longing 
girl  seemed  weighed  down  with  a  new  heaviness, 
was  New  Year — “happy  New  Year;”  and  she  had 
felt  anew  how  little  she  was  cared  for — how  little  the 
world  possessed  of  gladness  to  her,  as  she  heard  the 
noisy  greeting  of  children  in  the  street,  and  saw  the 
little  gifts  shown  proudly  around.  She  passed  from 
childish  joy  to  the  pure  pleasure  of  older  minds,  re¬ 
joicing  in  tokens  of  affection  on  this  day  of  festival ; 
and,  in  her  solitude  and  sadness,  envied  all  sinlessly 
the  blessedness  of  those  remembered  by  the  loving. 

Yes,  ’twas  New  Year’s  day  in  gay  New  York. 
The  air  was  clear  and  cold — the  heavens  in  a  most 
favourable  state  for  communicating  the  bright  morn¬ 
ing  greeting  of  gay,  generous  Old  Sol,  to  our  fair 
Mother  Earth.  The  streets  of  the  famed  Gotham 
rested  from  th.e  constant  pressure  of  loaded  drays 
upon  their  stony  breasts,  (forgive  me !  that  I  make 
them  so  cold-hearted,)  and  the  closed  shutters  of  the 


( 


286  KARL  AND  CORINNE. 

“legion”  merchants  on  Broadway  gave  silent  notice, 
that  young  clerks  dealt  with  more  animated  things 
that  day  than  measuring-sticks  and  silks,  and  were 
not  “  at  home”  to  never  so  anxious  customers. 

All  over  the  great  city,  fair  maidens  and  plain, 
high-born  and  lowly,  were  preparing  for  “calls”  ex¬ 
pected. 

All  over  the  great  city,  creation’s  lords  looked  in 
their  mirrors  anxiously,  and  put  the  finishing  grace 
to  whiskers  as  carefully  turned  as  a  lady’s  curl. 

All  over  the  great  city,  wdiite  gloves  and  well- 
brushed  hats  lay  upon  bachelors’  tables,  ready  for  the 
hour  which  Fashion  had  said  was  the  proper  one  to 
commence  “  congratulations.” 

And  all  over  the  great  city  luxuries  were  laid  out, 
as  if  the  slaves  of  Aladdin’s  lamp  had  been  called 
upon  for  a  universal  feast. 

Door-bells  rung;  servant  men  and  maids  answer¬ 
ing  them,  received  large  packages  and  small,  all  elo¬ 
quent  with  compliments  and  gifts. 

Fifes  were  played,  drums  wrere  beaten,  trumpets 
made  their  loud  alarum  through  the  nurseries  of  all 
homes,  where  baby-boys  played  war  with  their  new 
toys ;  and  wonderful  was  the  birth  of  wraxen  beauties, 
with  marvellous  blue  eyes — out  of  order  soon,  from 
constant  using — which  made  the  hearts  of  baby-girls 
bound  with  the  embryo  emotions  of  motherly  joy. 

Some  young  ladies’  hearts  were  dancing,  some 
trembling  hopefully.  Some  young  men’s  hearts  were 
delightfully  calm  and  firm,  some  dreadfully  under- 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


287 


mined  by  diffidence  and  doubt.  But  all  had  hope ! 

All? 

There  was  no  rich  table  spread  in  the  close  room 
called  Corinne’s  home.  No  toilette  received  her 
thought — no  gift  came,  with  its  voice  of  love,  -or 
friendly  interest.  She  listened  to  no  footstep,  for 
there  was  none  but  would  pass  by.  She  waited  for 
no  fond  kiss,  for  the  lips  of  brother  and  sister  in  the 
wide  world’s  family  were,  to  her,  as  if  they  had  been 
of  ice ;  they  were  deadly  cold  to  the  stranger  in  the 
low  dwelling ! 

Alone  upon  the  sea  of  life !  with  no  star  in  the 
heaven  of  hope — no  voice  on  the  dreary  waste  of  deep, 
dark  water,  to  soothe  !  Poor  girl !  Poverty  in  gold 
was  very  light  to  bear,  compared  to  that  dread  po¬ 
verty  the  soul  was  crushed  by !  Her  duty  was  the 
one  object  of  her  life.  She  freely  gave  her  youth  and 
strength  to  it;  but  it  made  her  eye  dim  sometimes. 

Her  mother,  beautiful  but  weak,  had,  after  her  first 
widowhood,  been  bought  by  an  old  man’s  gold.  The 
wealth  which  bribed  her  to  forget  the  dead  was  lost; 
and  she  soon  sank  into  a  languor  of  the  heart  and 
mind,  that  made  her  child’s  life  a  constant  sacrifice. 

The  husband,  stunned  by  the  fall  from  affluence  to 
poverty,  and  with  no  heart  of  youth  to  win  back  by 
patience  his  lost  riches,  became  morose  and  sullen, 
leaving  to  his  step-daughter  the  miserable  effort  to 
gain  their  daily  bread. 

Was  not  this  a  home  to  break  the  young  spirit 
down?  No  comfort  in  her  mother’s  srnile,  for  there 


288 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


was  scarcely  a  ray  of  reason  in  it;  and  the  shadow 
of  that  old  man,  a  stranger,  as  it  were,  even  on  her 
hearth  !  She  must  not  leave  hei'  to  die,  or  him  to 
starve,  and  so  she  poured  the  wealth  of  her  gifted  in¬ 
tellect  out  lavishly  for  their  sakes,  coining  her  lofty 
thoughts  for  food. 

A  few  months  ago,  and  they  had  lived  in  a  sunny 
land,  a  land  of  poetry  ;  had  looked  upon  a  landscape 
of  vineyard,  stream,  and  wood,  which  they  could  call 
their  own.  And  now  they  were  the  tenants  of  a  low, 
mean  dwelling,  across  the  waters,  over  which  they 
had  fled  in  pride  and  poverty.  The  mother  sickened 
with  the  change,  and  became  as  helpless  as  a  child ; 
but  the  old  man’s  nature  turned  to  hate,  for  the  beau¬ 
tiful  Corinne  had  been,  innocently,  the  ruin  of  his 
house. 

A  young  Italian  count,  wanting  in  all  things  ho¬ 
nourable,  had  offered  the  noble  girl  indignities,  which 
she  resented  so  proudly,  with  such  galling  contempt, 
that  his  evil  nature  was  excited  almost  to  frenzy,  and 
he  determined  to  bring  her  down  to  poverty,  if  not  to 
shame.  It  was  an  important  crisis  in  the  stepfather’s 
affairs,  when  this  bad  purpose  was  resolved  upon ; 
and  its  accomplishment  brought  bitter  trial  to  the 
virtuous  Corinne.  The  old  man  cursed  her  often  as 
the  destroyer  of  his  fortunes — the  dark  shadow  upon 
his  life. 

She  a  shadow  of  evil !  Old  man,  look  upon  the 
hearth  ! 

Before  the  noon  of  that  New  Year’s  day,  a  clearer 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


*28 


paleness  stole  over  the  mother’s  face — a  stranger 
brightness  filled  the  wandering  eye.  “  What  can  it 
mean?”  whispered  Corinne’s  heart. 

It  means,  poor  orphan  child,  that  the  Author  of  the 
life  to  you  so  burdensome,  is  nearing  her  reward — 
that  the  old  man  brooding  selfishly  will  soon  be  left 
a  griefless  widower,  the  solitary  sharer  of  your  un¬ 
happy  destiny— that  while  you  gaze,  the  spirit  of  one 
that  has  been  immortal  is  filling  with  immortality — 
with  visions  all  too  wonderful  for  speech ! 

And  gently,  peacefully,  the  spirit  passed  from  the 
earthly  to  the  heavenly.  Corinne  stood  by  the  bed 
of  death,  moved  by  its  sanctity,  but  more  envying 
than  grieving,  as  she  saw  the  calmness  settling  on 
those  features,  so  lately  troubled  with  the  expression 
of  a  fading  mind’s  unquiet.  When  her  father  left  her 
for  his  better  home,  Corinne  had  needed  every  conso¬ 
lation  ;  for  to  him  she  owed  all  the  cultivation  of  her 
intellect— the  best  affections  of  her  heart.  But  her 
mother’s  beauty  had  been  her  only  dower;  and  when 
disease  came  to  her,  the  weakness  of  her  mind  be¬ 
came  more  distinct  with  fading  loveliness.  Alas  I 
that  one  who  had  received  the  precious  gift  of  an  im 
mortal  child,  should  ever  neglect  devotion  to  it,  for 
fond  attentions  to  charms  not  half  so  beautiful  as  a 
mother’s  love  ! 

Yet,  as  Corinne  gazed  on  her  beautiful  parent,  no 
longer  restless  with  life,  she  trusted  that  the  weak¬ 
ness  she  had  mourned  over  would  be  most  mercifully 
dealt  with  in  the  great  judgment  court ;  for  her  mo¬ 
ther  had  been  a  petted,  darling  child,  and  the  sin  of 


% 


290 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


selfish  vanity  must  fall  more  heavily  on  other  heads 
than  hers. 

Until  sunset,  the  orphan  was  busy  found  the  dead, 
who  slept  so  peacefully.  The  old  man  made  no  sign 
that  he  was  moved  by  his  bereavement,  but  sat  with 
his  forehead  upon  his  hand,  as  he  always  sat,  and  his 
voice  muttering,  as  it  always  muttered,  dark  words 
against  the  virtue  whose  keeping  had  cast  him  from 
his  place  of  honour  down — down  to  the  wretched  for¬ 
tunes  of  that  hour. 

The  beauty  which  he  had  sought  with  childish 
eagerness  to  win,  was  like  the  loveliness  of  the  child 
whose  purity  had  ruined  him  ;  and  so  it  became  hate¬ 
ful  to  him.  Death  upon  that  white  brow  could  not 
soften  him,  for  the  armour  of  his  soul  was  of  the  steel 
of  selfishness ;  and  no  dart  but  that  which  would  de¬ 
stroy  his  own  mortal  nature  could  pierce  it. 

Corinne  had  finished  the  duties  which  are  called 
sad — she  had  shrouded  the  still  waving  lines  of 
beauty  in  the  last  robe — when  a  knock  startled  her. 
It  was  a  strange  sound  in  that  dull  place,  and  Corinne 
hastened  to  answer  it  as  speedily  as  if  it  had  been  the 
voice  of  an  angel  visitant,  whispering  “  Let  Hope 
in  !” 

There  was  no  angel  visiter  upon  the  threshold  as 
she  opened  the  door ;  but  Hope  did  come  in.  A  gift 
was  handed  her — her,  the  lonely,  the  uncared-for ! 
A  New  Year’s  gift!  of  a  valuable  Italian  work,  ele¬ 
gantly  bound,  “  A  tribute  from  a  friend,  who  re¬ 
spected  talent  and  great  fidelity.”  And  the  note 
which  accompanied  it— how  kind,  how  loving :  full 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


291 


of  warm  interest  in  her  history,  hinting  at  present 
necessity  of  the  writer’s  remaining  unknown  to  her; 
but  breathing  throughout  a  half-veiled  passion,  very 
like  a  lover’s. 

The  old  man  had  raised  his  head  anxiously  at  the 
sight  of  the  unexpected  package;  but  had  bent  it 
again,  with  something  like  a  groan,  as  a  richly  orna¬ 
mented  book  alone  repaid  him  for  the  effort.  He 
thought  it  might  be  gold. 

Oh  !  it  was  gold  to  one  poor  heart  there  !  It  was 
a  voice  from  a  human  soul — a  bright  link  thrown  to 
her  from  the  social  chain,  binding  her  anew  to  the 
outer  world.  It  was  a  gleam  of  light  dancing  through 
all  the  dark  chambers  of  her  soul,  giving  her  new  life 
even  in  that  visiting-place  of  death.  It  was  true,  that 
she  had  on  that  New  Year’s  day  lost  all  sympathy  of 
blood  with  the  race  her  mother  sprung  from ;  but  the 
long-chilled  current  of  heart  had  been  warmed,  and 
began  to  flow,  as  the  youthful  tide  ever  should.  The 
icy  crust  at  the  fountain  head  of  joy  gave  way  at 
the  warm  touch  of  friendliness.  Even  her  eye  was 
moistened  with  the  sweet  waters,  so  refreshing  to  her 
thirsty  soul. 

And  when  she  sat  down  by  her  mother’s  bed  again, 
she  almost  trembled  at  the  power  a  new  hope  had 
over  her;  she  almost  saddened  again,  in  believing  she 
was  cruel  to  her  mother’s  memory,  in  filling  her  place 
so  soon  with  a  new  image. 

But  her  parent  had  been  dead  to  her  for  months; 

and  the  joy  of  being  thought  of,  loved,  had  been  born 

to  her  since  the  sun  rose.  We  cannot  wonder  that 

20 


292 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


the  day  of  festival  did  not  end  in  such  tears  as  it  had 
opened  with. 

Passionate,  gifted,  spiritual  Corinne  Gietti,  gave 
the  rich  treasure  of  her  unshared  thoughts  to  the  au¬ 
thor  of  the  earnest  note  lying  now  close  to  her  heart; 
and  that  New  Year’s  evening,  by  the  departed,  re¬ 
mained  for  ever  clear  in  the  young  girl’s  memory 
when  time  and  happiness  had  faded  the  impressions 
of  her  other  lonely  hours. 

“  My  poor,  poor  Karl !  What  gladness  can  all  this 
wealth  and  brightness  give  me,  when  my  only  son, 
my  darling  boy,  is  losing  all  his  nobleness  in  the  love 
of  wine  ?” 

Was  there  any  cause  for  sorrow  on  this  New  Year’s 
evening  in  the  rich  dwelling  of  Peter  Van  Schenck? 
Was  the  heart  of  a  millionaire  troubled  as  one  crushed 
by  poverty? 

Brilliant  were  the  rooms,  and  gay  the  meeting  of 
young  friends,  in  this  mansion  of  a  father  grieving 
for  his  first  born.  The  New  Year’s  tables  were 
loaded  with  delicate  confections ;  the  fanciful  Chinese 
and  antique  stands  were  burdened  with  costly  gifts; 
dazzling  light  fell  all  around,  illuminating  curtained 
recesses,  rich  in  cunning  bijouterie ;  and  music 
was  there,  with  flowers,  smiles,  and  their  mother — 
Hope. 

But  a  shadow  was  there ;  and  although  the  blaze 
of  light  might  fall  directly  on  that  father’s  brow,  it 
could  not  take  the  shadow  off.  And  though  the  mo- 

o 

ther’s  eye  sparkled  sometimes  at  one  joy  left,  the  light 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


293 


could  not  put  out  the  glimmering  of  a  tear,  which 
trembled  on  the  lashes,  dropping  often  and  heavily 
upon  the  cheek.  And,  although  the  sister  shone  a 
gem  of  beauty  beneath  the  brilliant  ray,  it  could  not 
pierce  the  inner  temple,  where  lay  the  ruins  of  strong 
affections,  and  gild  them  joyfully. 

A  son,  an  only  son — a  brother,  an  only  brother — 
with  a  warm  heart,  and  intellect  refined  by  a  stu¬ 
dent’s  life,  had  given  idolizing  friends  a  taste  of  sorrow 
more  bitter  than  that  the  death-call  brings.  For  many 
years,  young  Karl  Van  Schenck  had  loved  the  wine- 
cup  better  than  the  peace  of  hearts ;  and  on  this  an¬ 
nual  festival  had  ever  returned  at  a  late  hour,  and 
with  a  polluted  brow,  to  his  aristocratic  home.  The 
anxious  ear  of  father,  mother,  sister,  had  ever  caught 
his  well-known  sound  of  the  uneven  step,  as  it  ap¬ 
proached  their  door,  and  listened,  as  it  slowly,  stum- 
blingly  passed  over  the  stairs  which  led  to  the  erring 
one’s  room.  The  New  Year’s  night  wTas  sure  to 
bring  the  trembling  form,  the  wandering  eye ;  for  the 
many  calls  during  the  exciting  day  brought  many  a 
draught  of  poison  to  Karl’s  lips. 

Oh !  away  with  this  red  snare  of  wine,  which  evil 
lurks  in,  because  it  cannot  linger  amid  the  fruits  and 
flowers  which  innocence  loves  so  well !  Let  it  no 
longer  fascinate,  with  its  glowing  eye  and  biting 
tongue,  the  sons  and  brothers,  who  pass  from  house 
to  house  with  the  New  Year’s  congratulations  !  Let 
Nature’s  unpolluted  gifts,  the  varied  confectionary 
of  ingenious  Art,  and  the  cheering  contents  of  the 
smoking  urn,  be  enough  of  hospitality,  without  the 


‘294  KARL  AND  C0R1NNE. 

luxury  which  a  mistaken  generosity  offers  too  easily 
excited  lips  ! 

But  what  light  stronger  than  the  brightness  of  that 
artificial  day — wrhat  joy  greater  than  the  youthful 
hope  upon  the  faces  of  that  gay  company — has  cast 
suddenly  away  the  shadow  from  the  father’s  brow — 
has  quenched  the  tear  in  the  mother’s  eye — has 
gilded  the  ruins  in  the  sister’s  heart?  Nothing  more 
bright  than  the  presence  of  a  young  man,  who,  pre¬ 
senting  a  beautiful  boquet  to  Kate  Van  Schenck, 
kissed  her  cheek  lovingly. 

It  was  the  son — the  brother !  His  eye  was  clear, 
his  fine  form  erect,  his  hand  firm  and  warm,  as  he 
grasped  his  sister’s,  with  an  emphasis  that  had  a 
world  of  meaning  in  it.  He  met  his  mother’s  eye 
with  the  consciousness  of  its  joyful  wonder  glowing 
in  his  face;  and  sought  her  side,  after  due  attention 
to  his  sister’s  guests,  with  the  fervour  of  a  prodigal. 

He  had  a  gift  for  both  his  parents;  but  what  were 
gifts  compared  to  his  dear  presence,  as  he  stood  there 
in  manly  beauty,  with  reason  unwavering — with  in¬ 
tellect  unquenched  by  wine?  And  oh  !  how  merrily 
to  them  now  passed  the  hours !  All  was  shadowless, 
now  that  the  light  of  Karl’s  clear  eye  fell  upon  the 
scene. 

A  gleam  of  joy  had  come  to  the  rich  dwelling, 
while  the  beautiful  watcher  by  the  untroubled  couch 
dreamed  of  new  life. 

That  night,  a  strong  man  bent  his  knee  for  the  first 
time  before  the  throne,  and  asked  for  strength  to  over- 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


295 


come  a  foe.  It  was  Karl  Van  Schenck,  sanctifying 
by  earnest  prayer  his  vow  of  reformation. 

’Twas  New  Year’s  evening  again.  Twelve  months 
had  passed  since  Hope  had  sent  her  angels  to  the 
poor  dwelling  of  Corinne,  and  the  young  Karl’s  luxu¬ 
riant  home.  The  lowly  room  was  desolate  now;  but 
again  the  rich  mansion  of  Peter  Van  Schenck  w^s 
dazzling  with  light — again  a  gay  company  was  assem¬ 
bled  in  the  spacious  rooms.  But  the  rooms  were 
crowded  now,  and  more  lavishly  adorned  with  the 
rare  embroidery  of  flowers.  Jewels  flashed,  feathers 
kissed  snowy  necks,  rich  dresses  added  grace  to  lovely 
forms.  All  was  life,  all  flutter,  all  animation.  It  was 
a  bridal !  Whose  ? 

Who  was  the  bride  ?  The  “very  beautiful,”  whose 
romantic  story  was  on  all  lips?  Who  was  it,  that 
bore  herself  so  gracefully,  so  nobly,  before  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  eyes?  What  made  all  hearts  acknowledge 
there  was  worth  enough  under  that  gifted  brow  to 
equal  rank ;  and  wonder  not,  that  the  passionate  love 
of  such  a  creature  had  won  a  victim  from  fast-strength¬ 
ening  chains  ? 

It  was  Corinne  ! — Corinne,  the  lonely  orphan  girl ! 
— who  stood  now  by  the  side  of  Karl  Van  Schenck, 
the  wife,  the  idol  of  his  soul !  It  was  Corinne  !  raised 
from  the  darkness  of  her  low  home  to  this  brilliancy  of 
fashion  and  wealth!  Corinne!  the  dreaming  watcher 
— the  labourer  for  bread — now  petted  by  a  happy 
family — now  the  object  of  such  love  as  she  had  longed 
for  in  heavily-burdened  hours  ! 


i 


296 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


And  never  was  there  a  happier  bridal;  never  was 
there  a  lovelier  bride  known  in  the  proud  circle  in 
which  the  Van  Schencks  moved.  Even  the  old  man, 
whose  shadow  had  been  upon  the  hearth  so  long, 
caught  the  admiration  of  the  crowd;  and  made  him¬ 
self  useful  now  in  telling  how  wealthy  he  had  been ! 
and  ennobling  his  beautiful  step-daughter’s  purity  by 
giving  it  as  the  cause  of  their  changed  fortunes.  The 
old  man’s  heart  was  softened  wonderfully  by  the 
homage  Corinne  was  now  the  object  of. 

But  how  came  this  all  about? 

One  little  year  ago,  and  the  unknown  friend  sent 
his  first  token  of  interest — ay,  love — to  the  young  fo¬ 
reigner.  One  little  year  ago,  that  affection  was  first 
acknowledged,  which  had  the  power  to  raise  the  lover 
from  the  “downward  way”  to  the  glorious  height  of 
temperance  and  prayer.  It  had  proved  a  more  per¬ 
suasive  guide  than  filial  or  fraternal  love;  and  led 
him  to  his  home  a  changed — a  liberated  man.  All 
unconsciously  Beauty  and  Genius  in  Obscurity  had 
brought  light  and  joy  to  high  places  clouded  by  grief 
Karl  had  first  seen  Corinne  in  the  office  of  the 
publisher,  who  accepted  her  articles  to  his  own  profit 
more  than  hers.  Struck  by  her  peculiar  beauty,  he 
had  sought  all  means  to  know  her  history,  watching 
her  secretly  in  her  regular  visits  to  the  publisher, 
(the  only  visits  she  seemed  to  make,)  and  strength¬ 
ening  at  every  sight  of  her  the  interest  which  had 
been  awakened  in  his  heart. 

He  read  her  eloquent  appeals  to  the  wayward,  the 
sinning,  the  uncharitable  of  the  earth,  with  wonder- 


KARL  AND  CORINNE. 


% 


297 

ing  admiration  and  delight.  But  just  lefore  that 
memorable  New  Year’s  day,  he  had  been  touched  to 
his  very  soul  by  one  of  her  womanly  defences  of  the 
weak  and  erring,  in  which  she  had  declared  she 
would  sooner  trust  the  being  whose  leading  passion 
was  the  love  of  wine,  than  one  whose  spirit  had  un¬ 
truth  for  its  foundation — who  steeped  his  words  in 
sweet  deceit,  and  smoothed  his  brow  with  falsehood. 
There  was  no  hope  where  beautiful  Truth  was  not 
permitted  to  be  a  guest ;  but  the  strong  draught  did 
not  always  or  speedily  drown  the  noble  sentiments  of 
the  soul. 

Karl  felt  that  she  was  right — that  notwithstanding 
his  years  of  weakness,  the  heavenly  whisperers  were 
not  all  hushed — that  the  refinement  of  his  mind  was 
not  yet  made  gross  by  the  companionship  of  those 
who  spurned  all  moralities.  There  was  hope  for  him ; 
and  on  the  morning  of  that  first  New  Year,  he  ear¬ 
nestly  resolved  to  keep  his  lip  from  touching  the  glass, 
which  might  be  offered  to  him  during  his  many  calls. 
When  evening  came,  his  lip  was  pure  of  the  red 
stain  ;  and  with  a  hopeful  heart  he  sent  his  first  offer¬ 
ing  to  the  gentle  girl  whose  image  had  strengthened 
him. 

Corinne  was  too  holy  in  her  loneliness  and  trials 
for  him  to  bring  shame  or  sorrow  to  her,  and  Karl 
determined  to  make  her  his  own  wedded  wife,  if  he 
could  win  her,  after  a  trial'of  his  vow  of  temperance 
for  half  a  year. 

He  still  remained  unknown ;  but  the  solitary  Ita¬ 
lian  constantly  received  some  earnest  token  that  the 


298 


KARL  AND  C0RIN  NE. 


one  heart  in  the  gay  outer  world  still  beat  warmly  for 
her — soon  would  pray  for  a  gift  coveted  beyond  all 
'things  else.  He  must  have  intercourse  with  her  thus 
to  keep  his  spirit  strong. 

The  six  months  passed  away,  and  the  “  unknown,” 
treasured  so  faithfully  in  fancy,  had  not  long  to  wait 
for  the  devoted  girl’s  declaration  that  she  w^as  indeed, 
in  her  loneliness,  “  all  his  own.”  Her  proud  spirit 
could  not  brook,  however,  the  contempt  or  condescen¬ 
sion  she  might  reasonably  expect  from  the  wealthy 
family  she  must  enter,  if  she  wedded^  Karl ;  and  it 
was  not  until  the  loving  Kate  warmly  claimed  her  as 
sister,  and  the  parents  of  her  lover  blessed  her  for 
the  joy  she  had  brought  their  aching  hearts,  that  she 
was  convinced  her  dower  of  purity  was  more  costly 
in  their  eyes  than  lands  or  gold. 

Corinne  would  wait  until  the  anniversary  of  the 
day  so  memorable  to  her,  before  she  gave  her  hand  to 
Karl,  and  so  on  New  Year’s  night  she  became  a  bride. 
Her  husband  always  blessed  her,  and  turned  not  back 
from  the  upward  and  onward  way  she  had  pointed 
out. 

Oh !  let  not  the  lowly  and  the  gifted,  sorrow  that 
they  act  no  part  in  the  world’s  history !  Some  pity¬ 
ing,  softening  word,  dropped  on  man’s  heart,  may 
melt  it  to  good  deeds,  giving  new  music  to  the  spirit 
of  some  loving  one,  and  a  new  song  to  angels. 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


Bx  Charles  Dickens. 


We  will  be  bold  to  say,  that  there  is  scarcely  a 
man  in  the  constant  habit  of  walking,  day  after  day, 
through  any  of  the  crowded  thoroughfares  of  London, 
who  cannot  recollect,  among  the  people  whom  he 
“knows  by  sight,”  to  use  a  familiar  phrase,  some 
being  of  abject  and  wretched  appearance,  whom  he 
remembers  to  have  seen  in  a  very  different  condition; 
whom  he  has  observed  sinking  lower  and  lower  by 
almost  imperceptible  degrees,  and  the  shabbiness  and 
utter  destitution  of  whose  appearance,  at  last,  strike 
forcibly  and  painfully  upon  him,  as  he  passes  by. 
Is  there  any  man,  who  has  mixed  much  with  society, 
or  whose  avocations  have  caused  him  to  mingle,  at 
one  time  or  other,  with  a  great  number  of  people,  who 
cannot  call  to  mind  the  time  when  some  shabby, 
miserable  wretch,  in  rags  and  filth,  who  shuffles 
past  him  now  in  all  the  squalor  of  disease  and  poverty, 
w^as  a  respectable  tradesman,  or  a  clerk,  or  a  man  fol¬ 
lowing  some  thriving  pursuit,  with  good  prospects, 
and  decent  means? — or  cannot  any  of  our  readers  call 
to  mind  from  among  the  list  of  their  quondam  ac- 

(299) 


l 


I 


300 


THE  DRUNKARDS  DEATH. 


quaintance,  some  fallen  and  degraded  man,  who  lin¬ 
gers  about  the  pavement  in  hungry  misery — from 
whom  every  one  turns  coldly  away,  and  who  pre¬ 
serves  himself  from  sheer  starvation,  nobody  knows 
how~?  Alas!  sucb  cases  are  of  too  frequent  occur¬ 
rence  to  be  rare  items  in  any  man’s  experience ;  and 
but  too  often  arise  from  one  cause — drunkenness, — 
that  fierce  rage  for  the  slow,  sure  poison,  that  over¬ 
steps  every  other  consideration;  that  casts  aside  wife, 
children,  friends,  happiness,  and  station  ;  and  hurries 
its  victims  madly  on  to  degradation  and  death. 

Some  of  these  men  have  been  impelled  by  misfor¬ 
tune  and  misery,  to  the  vice  that  has  degraded  them. 
The  ruin  of  worldly  expectations,  the  death  of  those 
they  loved,  the  sorrow  that  slowly  consumes,  but  will 
not  break  the  heart,  has  driven  them  wild ;  and  they 
present  the  hideous  spectacle  of  madmen,  slowly 
dying  by  their  own  hands.  But,  by  far  the  greater 
part  have  wilfully,  and  with  open  eyes,  plunged  into 
the  £ulf  from  which  the  man  who  once  enters  it  never 
rises  more,  but  into  which  he  sinks  deeper  and 
deeper  down,  until  recovery  is  hopeless. 

Such  a  man  as  this  once  stood  by  the  bedside  of 
nis  dying  wife,  while  his  children  knelt  around,  and 
mingled  low  bursts  of  grief  with  their  innocent 
prayers.  The  room  was  scantily  and  meanly  fur¬ 
nished  ;  and  it  needed  but  a  glance  at  the  pale  form 
from  which  the  light  of  life  was  fast  passing  away,  to 
know  that  grief,  and  want,  and  anxious  care,  had 
been  busy  at  the  heart  for  many  a  weary  year.  An 
elderly  female,  with  her  face  bathed  in  tears,  was  sup- 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


301 


porting  the  head  of  the  dying  woman — her  daughter — 
on  her  arm.  But  it  was  not  towards  her  that  the 
wan  face  turned ;  it  was  not  her  hand  that  the  cold 
and  trembling  fingers  clasped ;  they  pressed  the  hus¬ 
band’s  arm ;  the  eyes,  so  soon  to  be  closed  in  death, 
rested  on  his  face,  and  the  man  shook  beneath  their 
gaze.  His  dress  was  slovenly  and  disordered,  his 
face  inflamed,  his  eyes  bloodshot  and  heavy.  He  had 
been  summoned  from  some  wild  debauch  to  the  bed 
of  sorrow  and  death. 

A  shaded  lamp  by  the  bedside  cast  a  dim  light  on 
the  figures  around,  and  left  the  remainder  of  the  room 
in  thick,  deep  shadow.  The  silence  of  night  pre¬ 
vailed  without  the  house,  and  the  stillness  of  death 
was  in  the  chamber.  A  watch  hung  over  the  mantel¬ 
shelf  ;  its  low  ticking  was  the  only  sound  that  broke 
the  profound  quiet,  but  it  was  a  solemn  one,  for  well 
they  knew,  who  heard  it,  that  before  it  had  recorded 
the  passing  of  another  hour,  it  would  beat  the  knell 
of  a  departed  spirit. 

It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  wait  and  watch  for  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  death ;  to  know  that  hope  is  gone,  and  re¬ 
covery  impossible ;  and  to  sit  and  count  the  dreary 
hours  through  long,  long  nights — such  nights  as  only 
watchers  by  the  bed  of  sickness  know.  It  chills  the 
blood  to  hear  the  dearest  secrets  of  the  heart,  the 
pent-up,  hidden  secrets  of  many  years,  poured  forth 
by  the  unconscious,  helpless  being  before  you ;  and 
to  think  how  little  the  reserve  and  cunning  of  a  whole 
life  will  avail,  when  fever  and  delirium  tear  off  the 
mask  at  last.  Strange  tales  have  been  told  in  the 


302 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

wanderings  of  dying  men ;  tales  so  full  ot  guilt  and 
crime,  that  those  who  'Stood  by  the  sick  person’s 
couch  have  fled  in  horror  and  affright,  lest  they 
should  be  scared  to  madness  by  what  they  heard  and 
saw ;  and  many  a  wretch  has  died  alone,  raving  of 
deeds,  the  very  name  of  which  has  driven  the  boldest 
man  away. 

But  no  such  ravings  were  to  be  heard  at  the  bed¬ 
side  by  which  the  children  knelt.  Their  half-stifled 
sobs  and  moanings  alone  broke  the  silence  of  the 
lonely  chamber.  And  when  at  last  the  mother’s  grasp 
relaxed,  and  turning  one  look  from  the  children  to 
their  father,  she  vainly  strove  to  speak,  and  fell  back¬ 
ward  on  the  pillow,  all  was  so  calm  and  tranquil  that 
she  seemed  to  sink  to  sleep.  They  leaned  over  her; 
they  called  upon  her  name,  softly  at  first,  and  then  in 
the  loud  and  piercing  tones  of  desperation.  But  there 
was  no  reply.  They  listened  for  her  breath,  but  no 
sound  came.  They  felt  for  the  palpitation  of  the 
heart,  but  no  faint  throb  responded  to  the  touch. 
That  heart  was  broken,  and  she  was  dead ! 

The  husband  sunk  into  a  chair  by  the  bedside,  and 
clasped  his  hands  upon  his  burning  forehead.  He 
gazed  from  child  to  child,  but  when  a  weeping  eye 
met  his,  he  quailed  beneath  its  look.  No  word  of 
comfort  was  whispered  in  his  ear,  no  look  of  kindness 
lighted  on  his  face.  All  shrunk  from,  and  avoided 
him  ;  and  when  at  last  he  staggered  from  the  room, 
no  one  sought  to  follow,  or  console  the  widower. 

The  time  had  been,  when  many  a  friend  would 
have  crowded  round  him  in  his  affliction,  and  many 


* 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH.  303 

a  heartfelt  condolence  would  have  met  him  in  his 
grief.  Where  were  they  now?  One  by  one,  friends, 
relations,  the  commonest  acquaintance,  even,  had 
fallen  off  from,  and  deserted  the  drunkard.  His  wife 
alone  had  clung  to  him  m  good  and  evil,  in  sickness 
and  poverty.  And  how  had  he  rewarded  her  ?  He 
had  reeled  from  the  tavern  to  her  bedside,  in  time  to 
see  her  die  ! 

He  rushed  from  the  house,  and  walked  swiftly 
through  the  streets.  Remorse,  fear,  shame,  all  crowd¬ 
ed  on  his  mind.  Stupified  with  drink,  and  bewil¬ 
dered  with  the  scene  he  had  just  witnessed,  he  re¬ 
entered  the  tavern  he  had  quitted  shortly  before. 
Glass  succeeded  glass.  His  blood  mounted,  and  his 
brain  whirled  round.  Death  !  Every  one  must  die, 
and  why  not  she  ?  She  was  too  good  for  him ;  her 
relations  had  often  told  him  so.  Curses  on  them ! 
Had  they  not  deserted  her,  and  left  her  to  whine  away 
the  time  at  home?  Well:  she  was  dead,  and  happy, \  . 
perhaps.  It  was  better  as  it  was.  Another  glass — 
one  more — hurrah !  It  was  a  merry  life  while  it 
lasted  ;  and  he  would  make  the  most  of  it. 

Time  went  on  ;  the  three  children  who  were  left  to 
him,  grew  up,  and  were  children  no  longer; — the 
father  remained  the  same — poorer,  shabbier,  and  more 
dissolute-looking,  but  the  same  confirmed  and  irre¬ 
claimable  drunkard.  The  boys  had,  long  ago,  run 
wild  in  the  streets,  and  left  him ;  the  girl  alone  re¬ 
mained,  but  she  worked  hard,  and  words  or  blows 
could  always  procure  him  something  for  the  tavern.  So 
he  went  on  in  the  okbcourse,  and  a  merry  life  he  led. 


t 


304 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


One  night,  as  early  as  ten  o’clock — for  the  girl  had 
been  sick  for  many  days,  and  there  was,  consequently, 
little  to  spend  at  the  public  house — he  bent  his  steps 
homewards,  bethinking  himself  that  if  he  would  have 
her  able  to  earn  money,  it  would  be  as  well  to  apply 
to  the  parish  surgeon,  or,  at  all  events,  to  take  the 
trouble  of  inquiring  what  ailed  her,  which  he  had  not 
yet  thought  it  worth  while  to  do.  .It  was  a  wet  De¬ 
cember  night;  the  wind  blew  piercing  cold,  and  the 
rain  poured  heavily  down.  He  begged  a  few  half¬ 
pence  from  a  passer-by,  and  having  bought  a  small 
loaf  (for  it  was  his  interest  to  keep  the  girl  alive,  if  he 
could)  he  shuffled  onwards,  as  fast  as  the  wind  and 
rain  would  let  him. 

At  the  back  of  Fleet  street,  and  lying  between  it 
and  the  water-side,  are  several  mean  and  narrow 
courts,  which  form  a  portion  of  Whitefriars ;  it  was 
to  one  or  these  that  he  directed  his  steps. 

The  alley  into  which  he  turned,  might,  for  filth 
and  misery,  have  competed  with  the  darkest  corner 
of  this  ancient  sanctuary  in  its  dirtiest  arid  most  law¬ 
less  time.  The  houses,  varying  from  two  stories  in 
height  to  four,  were  stained  with  every  indescribable 
hue  that  long  exposure  to  the  weather,  damp,  and 
rottenness  can  impart  to  tenements  composed  origi¬ 
nally  of  the  roughest  and  coarsest  materials.  The 
windows  were  patched  with  paper,  and  stuffed  with 
the  foulest  rags ;  the  doors  were  falling  from  their 
hinges;  poles  with  lines  on  which  to  dry  clothes 
projected  from  every  casement,  and  sounds  of  quar¬ 
relling  or  drunkenness  issued  from  every  room. 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


305 


The  solitary  oil  lamp  in  the  centre  of  the  court  had 
been  blown  out,  either  by  the  violences'  of  the  wind 
or  the  act  of  some  inhabitant  who  had  excellent  rea¬ 
sons  for  objecting  to  his  residence  being  rendered  too 
conspicuous ;  and  the  only  light  which  fell  upon  the 
broken  and  uneven  pavement,  was  derived  from  the 
miserable  candles  that  here  and  there  twinkled  in  the 
rooms  of  such  of  the  more  fortunate  residents  as  could 
afford  to  indulge  in  so  expensive  a  luxury.  A  gutter 
ran  down  the  centre  of  the  alley — all  the  sluggish 
odours  of  which  had  been  called  forth  by  the  rain ; 
and,  as  the  wind  whistled  through  the  old  houses, 
the  doors  and  shutters  creaked  upon  their  hinges,  and 
the  windows  shook  in  their  frames,  with  a  violence 
which  every  moment  seemed  to  threaten  the  destruc¬ 
tion  of  the  whole  place. 

The  man  whom  we  have  followed  into  this  den, 
walked  on  in  the  darkness,  sometimes  stumbling  into 
the  main  gutter,  and  at.  others,  into  some  branch  re¬ 
positories  of  garbage  which  had  been  formed  by  the 
rain,  until  he  reached  the  last  house  in  the  court. 
The  door,  or  rather  what  wTas  left  of  it,  stood  ajar,  for 
the  convenience  of  the  numerous  lodgers ;  and  he 
proceeded  to  grope  his  way  up  the  old  and  broken 
stair,  to  the  attic  story. 

He  was  within  a  step  or  two  of  his  room  door,  when 
it  opened,  and  a  girl,  wThose  miserable  and  emaciated 
appearance  was  only  to  be  equalled  by  that  of  the 
candle  which  she  shaded  with  her  hand,  peeped  anx¬ 
iously  out. 

“  Is  that  you,  father?”  said  the  girl. 


306 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

/ 

“  Who  else  should  it  be  ?”  replied  the  man  gruffly. 
“  What  are  you  trembling  at?  It’s  little  enough  that 
I’ve  had  to  drink  to-day  for  there’s  no  drink  without 
money,  and  no  money  without  work.  What  the 
devil’s  the  matter  with  the  girl?” 

“I  am  not  well,  father — not  at  all  well,”  said  the 
girl,  bursting  into  tears. 

“  Ah !”  replied  the  man,  in  the  tone  of  a  person 
who  is  compelled  to  admit  a  very  unpleasant  fact,  to 
which  he  would  rather  remain  blind,  if  he  could. 
“  You  must  get  better  some  how,  for  we  must  have 
money.  You  must  go  to  the  parish  doctor,  and  make 
him  give  you  some  medicine.  They’re  paid  for  it, 
damn  ’em.  What  are  you  standing  before  the  door 
for  ?  Let  me  come  in  can’t  you  ?” 

“Father,”  whispered  the  girl,  shutting  the  door 
behind  her,  and  placing  herself  before  it,  “  William 
has  come  back.” 

“Who?”  said  the  man  with  a  start. 

“  Hush,”  replied  the  girl,  “  William ;  brother  Wil¬ 
liam.” 

> 

“  And  what  does  he  want  ?”  said  the  man,  with  an 
effort  at  composure — “money?  meat?  drink?  He’s 
come  to  the  wrong  shop  for  that,  if  he  does.  Give 
me  the  candle — give  me  the  candle,  fool — I  ain’t 
going  to  hurt  him.”  He  snatched  the  candle  from 
her  hand,  and  walked  into  the  room. 

Sitting  on  an  old  box,  with  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  wretched  cinder  fire 
that  was  smouldering  on  the  hearth,  was  a  young 
man  of  about  two-and-twenty,  miserably  clad  in  an 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH.  307 

old  coarse  jacket  and  trousers.  He  started  up  when 
his  father  entered. 

“Fasten  the  door,  Mary,”  said  the  young  man 
hastily — “  Fasten  the  door.  You  look  as  if  you 
didn’t  know  me,  father.  It’s  long  enough  since  you 
drove  me  from  home:  you  may  well  forget  me.” 

“And  what  do  you  want  here,  now?”  said  the 
father,  seating  himself  on  a  stool,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fireplace.  “What  do  you  want  here  now ?” 

“  Shelter,”  replied  the  son,  “  I’m  in  trouble :  that’s 
enough.  If  I’m  caught  I  shall  swing:  that’s  certain. 
Caught  I  shall  be,  unless  I  stop  here ;  that’s  as  certain. 
And  there’s  an  end  of  it.” 

“  You  mean  to  say,  you’ve  been  robbing,  or  murder¬ 
ing,  then?”  said  the  father. 

“Yes,  I  do,”  replied  the  son.  “Does  it  surprise 
you,  father?”  He  looked  steadily  in  the  man’s  face, 
but  he  withdrew  his  eyes,  and  bent  them  on  the 
ground. 

“Where’s  your  brothers?”  he  said,  after  a  long 
pause. 

“  Where  they’ll  never  trouble  you,”  replied  his 
son.  “John’s  gone  to  America,  and  Henry’s  dead.” 

“Dead!”  said  the  father,  with  a  shudder,  which 
even  he  could  not  repress. 

“  Dead,”  replied  the  young  man.  “  He  died  in  my 
arms — shot  like  a  dog,  by  a  gamekeeper.  He  stag¬ 
gered  back,  I  caught  him,  and  his  blood  trickled  down 
my  hands.  It  poured  out  from  his  side  like  water. 
He  was  weak,  and  it  blinded  him,  but  he  threw  him¬ 
self  dowrn  on  his  knees,  on  the  grass,  and  prayed  to 

21 


308  the  drunkard's  death. 

God,  that  if  his  mother  was  in  heaven,  He  would  hear 
her  prayers  for  pardon  for  her  youngest  son.  ‘  I  was 
her  favourite  boy,  Will/  he  said,  ‘and  I  am  glad  to 
think,  now,  that  when  she  was  dying,  though  I  was 
a  very  young  child  then,  and  my  little  heart  was 
almost  bursting,  I  knelt  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
and  thanked  God  for  having  made  me  so  fond  of  her 
as  to  have  never  once  done  any  thing  to  bring  the 
tears  into  her  eyes.  Oh,  Will,  why  was  she  taken 
away,  and  father  left!'  There's  his  dying  words, 
father,"  said  the  young  man ;  “  make  the  best  you 
can  of  'em.  You  struck  him  across  the  face,  in  a 
drunken  fit,  the  morning  we  ran  away ;  and  here's 
the  end  of  it." 

The  girl  wept  aloud ;  and  the  father,  sinking  his 
head  upon  his  knees,  rocked  himself  to  and  fro. 

“  If  I  am  taken,"  said  the  young  man,  “  I  shall  be 
carried  back  into  the  country,  and  hung  for  that  man's 
murder.  Thejr  cannot  trace  me  here  without  your 
assistance,  father.  For  aught  I  know,  you  may  give 
me  up  to  justice ;  but  unless  you  do,  here  I  stop  until 
I  can  venture  to  escape  abroad." 

For  two  whole  days,  all  three  remained  in  the 
wretched  room,  without  stirring  out.  On  the  third 
evening,  however,  the  girl  was  worse  than  she  had 
been  yet,  and  the  few  scraps  of  food  they  had  were 
gone.  It  was  indispensably  necessary  that  somebody 
should  go  out;  and,  as  the  girl  was  too  weak  and  ill, 
the  father  went,  just  at  nightfall. 

He  got  some  medicine  for  the  girl,  and  a  trifle  in 
the  way  of  pecuniary  assistance.  On  his  way  back, 


V 


f  * 


WAiUlEX  AX li  THE  Ofl'lCEIlS,  AX  THE  l’UBLIC  HOUSE. 


(310) 


Taiu 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


311 


he  earned  sixpence  by  holding  a  horse ;  and  he  turned 
homewards  with  enough  money  to  supply  their  most 
pressing  wants  for  two  or  three  days  to  come.  He  had 
to  pass  the  public  house.  He  lingered  for  an  instant, 
walked  past  it,  turned  bad:  again,  lingered  once 
more,  and  finally  slunk  in.  Two  men  whom  he  had 
not  observed,  w^ere  on  the  watch.  They  were  on  the 
point  of  giving  up  their  search  in  despair,  when  his 
loitering  attracted  their  attention ;  and  when  he  en¬ 
tered  the  public  house  they  followed  him. 

“  You’ll  drink  with  me,  master,”  said  one  of  them, 
proffering  him  a  glass  of  liquor. 

“  And  me  too,”  said  the  other,  replenishing  the 
glass  as  soon  as  it  was  drained  of  its  contents. 

The  man  thought  of  his  hungry  children,  and  his 
son’s  danger.  But  they  were  nothing  to  the  drunk¬ 
ard.  He  did  drink,  and  his  reason  left  him. 

“  A  wet  night,  Warden,”  whispered  one  of  the  men 
in  his  ear,  as  he  at  length  turned  to  go  way,  after 
spending  in  liquor  one-half  of  the  money  on  which, 
perhaps,  his  daughter’s  life  depended. 

“  The  right  sort  of  night  for  our  friends,  in  hiding 
Master  Warden,”  whispered  the  other. 

“  Sit  down  here,”  said  the  one  who  had  spoken 
first,  drawing  him  into  a  corner.  “We  have  been 
looking  arter  the  young  un.  We  came  to  tell  him 
it’s  all  right,  now,  but  we  couldn’t  find  him  ’cause 
we  hadn’t  got  the  precise  direction.  But  that  ain’t 
strange,  for  I  don’t  think  he  know’d  it  himself,  when 
he  come  to  London,  did  he  ?” 

“  No  he  didn’t,  “  replied  the  father. 


312 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

The  two  men  exchanged  glances. 

“  There’s  a  vessel  down  at  the  docks,  to  sail  at 

% 

midnight,  when  it’s  high  water,”  resumed  the  first 
speaker,  “and  we’ll  put  him  on  board.  His  passage 
is  taken  in  another  name,  and  what’s  better  than  that, 
it’s  paid  for.  It’s  lucky  we  met  you.” 

“Very,”  said  the  second. 

“Capital  luck,”  said  the  first,  with  a  wink  to  his 
companion. 

“  Great,”  replied  the  second,  with  a  slight  nod  of 
intelligence. 

“  Another  glass  here;  quick !”  said  the  first  speaker. 

•  And  in  five  minutes  more,  the  father  had  uncon¬ 
sciously  yielded  up  his  own  son  into  the  hangman’s 
hands. 

Slowly  and  heavily  the  time  dragged  along  as  the 
brother  and  sister,  in  their  miserable  hiding-place 
listened  in  anxious  suspense  to  the  slightest  sound. 
At  length  a  heavy  footstep  was  heard  upon  the  stair ; 
it  approached  nearer ;  it  reached  the  landing,  and  the 
father  staggered  into  the  room. 

The  girl  saw  that  he  was  intoxicated,  and  advanced 
with  the  candle  in  her  hand  to  meet  him ;  she  stopped 
short,  gave  a  loud  scream,  and  fell  senseless  on  the 
ground.  She  had  caught  sight  of  the  shadow  of  a 
man  reflected  on  the  floor.  They  both  rushed  in, 
and  in  another  instant  the  young  man  was  a  prisoner, 
and  handcuffed. 

“Very  quietly  done,”  said  one  of  the  men  to  his 
companion,  “thanks  to  the  old  man.  Lift  up  the 
girl,  Tom — come,  come,  come,  it’s  no  use  crying, 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


313 


young  woman.  It’s  all  over  now,  and  can’t  be 
helped.” 

The  young  man  stooped  for  an  instant  over  the 
girl,  and  then  turned  fiercely  round  upon  his  father, 
who  had  reeled  against  the  wall,  and  was  gazing  on 
the  group  with  drunken  stupidity. 

“  Listen  to  me,  father,”  he  said,  in  a  tone  that  made 
the  drunkard’s  flesh  creep.  “My  brother’s  blood, 
and  mine,  is  on  your  head ;  I  never  had  a  kind  look, 
or  word,  or  care  from  you,  and  alive  or  dead,  I  never 
will  forgive  you.  Die  when  you  will,  or  how,  I  will 
be  with  you,  I  speak  as  a  dead  man  now,  and  I  warn 
you,  father,  that  as  surely  as  you  must  one  day  stand 
before  your  Maker,  so  surely  shall  your  children  be 
there,  hand  in  hand,  to  cry  for  judgment  against 
you.”  He  raised  his  manacled  hands  in  a  threatening 
attitude,  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  shrinking  parent,  and 
slowly  left  the  room ;  and  neither  father  nor  sister 
ever  beheld  him  more,  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

When  the  dim  and  misty  light  of  a  winter’s  morn¬ 
ing  penetrated  into  the  narrow  court,  and  struggled 
through  the  begrimed  window  of  the  wretched  room, 
Warden  awoke  from  his  heavy  .sleep,  and  found  him¬ 
self  alone.  He  rose  and  looked  around  him;  the  old 
flock  mattrass  on  the  floor  was  undisturbed ;  every 
thing  was  just  as  he  remembered  to  have  seen  it  last : 
there  were  no  signs  of  any  one,  save  himself,  having 
occupied  the  room  during  the  night.  He  inquired 
of  the  other  lodgers,  and  of  the  neighbours ;  but  his 
daughter  had  not  been  seen  or  heard  of.  He  ram- 
bled  through  the  streets,  and  scrutinized  each  wretched 


314 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

face  among  the  crowds  that  thronged  them,  with 
anxious  eyes.  But  his  search  was  fruitless,  and  he 
returned  to  his  garret  when  night  came  on,  desolate 
and  weary. 

For  many  days  he  occupied  himself  in  the  same 
manner,  but  no  trace  of  his  daughter  did  he  meet 
with,  and  no  word  of  her  reached  his  ears.  At  length 
he  gave  up  the  pursuit  as  hopeless.  He  had  long 
thought  of  the  probability  of  her  leaving  him,  and 
endeavouring  to  gain  her  bread  in  quiet,  elsewhere. 
She  had  left  him  at  last  to  starve  alone.  He  ground 
his  teeth,  and  cursed  her ! 

He  begged  his  bread  from  door  to  door.  Every 
halfpenny  he  could  wring  from  the  pity  or  credulity 
of  those  to  whom  he  addressed  himself,  was  spent  in 
the  old  way.  A  year  passed  over  his  head  ;  the  roof 
of  a  jail' was  the  only  one  that  had  sheltered  him  for 
many  months.  He  slept  under  archways,  and  in 
brick-fields — any  where,  where  there  was  some 
warmth  and  shelter  from  the  cold  and  rain.  But  in 
the  last  stage  of  poverty,  disease,  and  houseless  want, 
he  was  a  drunkard  still. 

At  last,  one  bitter  night,  he  sunk  down  on  a  door¬ 
step  faint  and  ill.  The  premature  decay  of  vice  and 
profligacy  had  worn  him  to  the  bone.  His  cheeks 
were  hollow  and  livid,  his  eyes  were  sunken,  and 
their  sight  was  dim.  His  legs  trembled  beneath  his 
weight,  and  a  cold  shiver  ran  through  every  limb. 

And  now  the  long-forgotten  scenes  of  a  misspent 
life  crowded  thick  and  fast  upon  him.  He  thought 
of  the  time  when  he  had  a  home — a  happy,  cheerful 


315 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

home — and  of  those  who  peopled  it*  and  flocked  about 
him  then,  until  the  forms  of  his  elder  children  seemed 
to  rise  from  the  grave,  and  stand  about  him — so  plain, 
so  clear,  and  so  distinct  they  were  that  he  could  touch 
and  feel  them.  Looks  that  he  had  long  forgotten 
were  fixed  upon  him  once  more ;  voices  long  since 
hushed  in  death  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  music 
of  village  bells.  But  it  was  only  for  an  instant.  The 
rain  beat  heavily  upon  him ;  and  cold  and  hungei 
were  gnawing  at  his  heart  again. 

He  rose,  and  dragged  his  feeble  limbs  a  few  paces 
further.  The  street  was  silent  and  empty ;  the  few 
passengers  who  passed  by,  at  that  late  hour,  hurried 
quickly  on,  and  his  tremulous  voice  was  lost  in  the 
violence  of  the  storm.  Again  that  heavy  chill  struck 
through  bis  frame,  and  his  blood  seemed  to  stagnate 
beneath  it.  He  coiled  himself  up  in  a  projecting 
doorway,  and  tried  to  sleep. 

But  sleep  had  fled  from  his  dull  and  glazed  eyes. 
His  mind  wandered  strangely,  but  he  was  awake,  and 
conscious.  The  well  known  shout  of  drunken  mirth 
sounded  in  his  ear,  the  glass  was  at  his  lips,  the 
board  was  covered  with  choice,  rich  food — they  were 
before  him  ;  he  could  see  them  all — he  had  but  to 
reach  out  his  hand  and  take  them — and,  though  the 
illusion  was  reality  itself,  he  knew  that  he  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  deserted  street,  watching  the  rain-drops 
as  they  pattered  on  the  stones ;  that  death  was  com¬ 
ing  upon  him  by  inches — and  that  there  were  none 
to  care  for  or  help  him. 

Suddenly,  he  started  up,  in  the  extremity  of  terror 


316  THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 

He  had  heard  his  own  voice  shouting  in  the  night 
air,  he  knew  not  what,  or  why.  Hark  !  A  groan  ! — 
another  !  His  senses  were  leaving  him ;  half-formed 
and  incoherent  words  burst  from  his  lips,  and  his 
hands  sought  to  tear  and  lacerate  his  flesh.  He  was 
going  mad,  and  he  shrieked  for  help  till  his  voice 
failed  him. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  up  the  long,  dismal 
street.  He  recollected  that  outcasts  like  himself, 
condemned  to  wander  day  and  night  in  those  dread¬ 
ful  streets,  had  sometimes  gone  distracted  with  their 
own  loneliness.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  many 
years  before  that  a  homeless  wretch  had  once  been 
found  in  a  solitary  corner,  sharpening  a  rusty  knife  to 
plunge  into  his  own  heart,  preferring  death  to  that 
endless,  weary,  wandering  to  and  fro.  In  an  instant 
his  resolve  was  taken,  his  limbs  received  new  life  ;  he 
ran  quickly  from  the  spot,  and  paused  not  for  breath 
until  he  reached  the  river-side. 

He  crept  softly  down  the  steep  stone  stairs  that  led 
from  the  commencement  of  Waterloo  bridge  down  to 
the  water’s  level.  He  crouched  into  a  corner,  and 
held  his  breath  as  the  patrol  passed.  Never  did  pri¬ 
soner’s  heart  throb  with  the  hope  of  liberty  and  life 
half  so  eagerly  as  did  that  of  the  wretched  man  at  the 
prospect  of  death.  The  watch  passed  close  to  him, 
but  he  remained  unobserved  ;  and  after  waiting  till 
the  sound  of  footsteps  had  died  away  in  the  distance, 
he  cautiously  descended,  and  stood  beneath  the  gloomy 
arch  that  forms  the  landing-place  from  the  river. 

The  tide  was  in,  and  the  water  flowed  at  his  feet; 


THE  DRUNKARD’S  DEATH. 


317 


the  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  was  lulled,  and  all  was, 
for  the  moment,  still  and  quiet — so  quiet  that  the 
slightest  sound  on  the  opposite  bank,  even  the  rip 
pling  of  the  water  against  the  barges  that  were  moored 
there,  was  distinctly  audible  to  his  ear.  The  stream 
stole  lanquidly  and  sluggishly  on.  Strange  and  fan¬ 
tastic  forms  rose  to  the  surface,  and  beckoned  him  to 
approach ;  dark  gleaming  eyes  peered  from  the 
water,  and  seemed  to  mock  his  hesitation,  while  hol¬ 
low  murmurs  from  behind  urged  him  onwards.  He 
retreated  a  few  paces,  took  a  short  run,  desperate 
leap,  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

Not  five  seconds  had  passed  w^hen  he  rose  to  the 
water’s  surface — but  what  a  change  had  taken  place 
in  that  short  time,  in  all  his  thoughts  and  feelings  ! 
Life — life,  in  any  form, — poverty,  misery,  starvation 
— any  thing  but  death.  He  fought  and  struggled 
with  the  water  that  closed  over  his  head,  and  screamed 
in  agonies  of  terror.  The  curse  of  his  own  son  rang  in 
his  ears.  The  shore — but  one  foot  of  dry  ground — he 
could  almost  touch  the  step.  One  hand’s  breadth 
nearer,  and  he  was  saved — but  the  tide  bore  him 
onward,  under  the  dark  arches  of  the  bridge,  and  he 
sank  to  the  bottom. 

Again  he  rose,  and  struggled  for  life.  For  one  in¬ 
stant — for  one  brief  instant — the  buildings  on  the 
river’s  banks,  the  lights  on  the  bridge  through  which 
the  current  had  borne  him,  the  black  water,  and  the 
fast  flying  clouds,  were  distinctly  visible — once  more 
he  sunk,  and  once  again  he  rose.  Bright  flames  of 
fire  shot  up  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  reeled  before 


3  IS 


THE  DRUNKARDS  DEATH. 


his  eyes,  while  the  water  thundered  in  his  ears,  and 
stunned  him  with  its  furious  roar. 

A  week  afterwards  the  body  was  washed  ashore, 
some  miles  down  the  river,  a  swollen  and  disligured 
mass.  Unrecognized  and  unpitied,  it  wras  borne  to 
the  grave;  and  there  it  has  long  since  mouldered 
away. 


* 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


By  Amebei* 


There  are  scenes  of  but  a  few  hours’  duration 
which  foreshadow  a  whole  life ;  and  sometimes  words 
spoken  carelessly,  and  in  jest,  are  an  index  to  years 
of  future  misery  or  pain. 


(319) 


320 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOOLIGHT. 

One  evening  a  small  boat,  containing  six  persons, 
was  descending  the  Delaware.  It  was  an  excursion 
for  pleasure ;  and  amid  the  soft  influence  of  a  sum 
mer’s  moonlight  evening,  this  party — young,  gay,  of 
both  sexes,  and  released,  for  a  few  hours,  from  the 
cares  of  life,  abandoned  themselves  to  unrestrained 
enjoyment  Many  a  merry  song  floated  on  the  air, 
as  their  boat  glided  on;  and,  at  intervals,  the  wild 
laugh  of  the  heart  which  has  thrown  off  its  care,  arose 
while  they  listened  to  a  story,  or  a  well  told  anec¬ 
dote.  Those  usually  timid  or  reserved  felt  at  home ; 
and  some  of  those  choice  spirits,  who  are  the  soul  of 
a  social  party,  gave  themselves  to  unrestrained  enjoy¬ 
ment. 

“  Give  us  another  song,  Mary/’  said  one  of  them, 
to  the  favourite  songstress  of  the  party.  Do — just 
one ;  something  lively,  and  none  of  those  that  make 
one  feel  as  though  he  was  in  the  land  of  darkness  and 
melancholy.” 

Urged  by  the  others,  she  complied,  and  sang  a  song 
of  her  own  composing,  beginning  with  the  words, — 

“  Come,  pledge  me  now  thy  hand  and  heart, 

That  changeless  still  through  weal  or  woe,  &c.” 

All  applauded  this  song  except  her  brother.  Feel¬ 
ing  mischievous,  he  said — 

“  Why,  Mary — after  all,  this  is  a  sad  song.  Every 
note  rings  with  the  sad  changes  of  life,  among  which 
you  wish  us  to  pledge  ourselves  changeless.  Give  us 
a  really  pleasant  one.” 

“  I’ll  sing  no  more,”  answered  his  sister. 


321 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

“  Do-  —just  a  little  one.” 

“  Don’t  gratify  him,”  said  a  young  man,  named 
Rubicon  “  If  that  song  can’t  please  him,  none  ever 
will.” 

“  I  like  to  hear  about  the  changes  of  life,”  said 
another  young  man. 

The  others  laughed  at  this  apparently  silly  expres¬ 
sion  ;  but,  without  heeding  their  mirth,  the  speaker 
leaned  upon  his  arm  at  one  end  of  the  boat,  and 
continued — 

“  I  don’t  believe  in  the  philosophy  which  would 
teach  us  to  sigh  because  wTe  are  older  to  day  than  we 
were  yesterday;  or,  forsooth,  that  we  do  not  dream 
about  fairy-land,  as  we  did  at  sixteen.  Go  ahead, 
without  looking  behind,  is  my  motto.  I’ll  pledge  a 
glass  of  wine  with  any  one  here,  that  ten  years  from 
to-night,  if  living,  I’ll  be  wiser,  more  contented,  and 
wealthier  than  I  am  now,  leaving  losses  by  accidents 
out  of  the  question.” 

“  What  do  you  call  accidents  ?”  said  Rubicon. 

“  Fire,  freshet,  thieves,  and  such  like.” 

“  Better  include  life  itself  among  them,”  said 
Mary’s  brother,  named  Morris. 

“That’s  no  accident,”  replied  the  other.  “You 
are  always  turning  things  into  ridicule,  Morris.  But 
permit  me  to  explain.  I  say,  that  if  allowed  to  pur¬ 
sue  the  even  tenor  of  my  way,  for  ten  years,  I  will 
be  better,  in  all  respects,  than  I  am  at  present.  Who’ll 
pledge  with  me?” 

“  All  of  us,”  exclaimed  the  group,  delighted  at  so 
novel  a  proposition. 


323  THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT, 

“  Let’s  understand  what  we  are  going  to  do,  Smith,” 
said  Rubicon.  “Let  each  one  wish  for  the  greatest 
good  which  he  hopes  to  attain  in  ten  years ;  and  then 
our  pledge  will  be  a  kind  of  vow  that  we  are  resolved 
to  have  it.” 

“Agreed,  agreed!”  exclaimed  the  others.  “Bring 
out  the  wine.”  Glasses  and  decanters  were  soon  pro¬ 
duced. 

“  Harriet  must  pledge  first,”  said  Morris,  handing 
her  the  wine. 

“  I  don’t  know  what  to  say,”  exclaimed  the  girl, 
holding  the  glass  in  her  hand,  and  laughing. 

“  Say  any  thing — tell  us  what  you  wish,  to  be  ten 
years  hence.” 

“  Well,  I  wish  I  was  a  fairy.” 

There  was  a  shout  of  merriment. 

“  You  are  spilling  the  wine  in  my  boots,”  Smith 
said,  dolefully. 

“Ha!  ha!  ha!”  laughed  Morris.  “That’s  a  fine 
commencement  for  your  project,  Smith.” 

“  Come,  pledge,  Harriet;  give  us  a  sensible  wish.” 

“  Haven’t  I  ?”  said  the  gay  girl.  “  I  wish  to  be  a 
fairy  ten  years  from  this,  and  be  no  older  than  1  am 
now,  and  roam  all  day  among  sunshine  and  flowers, 
and  hear  the  little  slave  fairies  singing  round  me,  and 
never  have  a  shade  of  sorrow  on  my  brow,  and - ” 

“That’s  enough,”  groaned  Morris. 

“  Is  that  your  pledge?”  asked  Smith. 

“  To  be  sure  it  is.” 

“It  won’t  be  realized.” 

“  I  don’t  care.” 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


323 


“Well,  you’re  a  curious  girl.  Let’s  hear  Miss 
Southey’s  wish.” 

She  took  the  proffered  glass,  and,  raising  it  to  her 
lips,  said,  “  I  wish  for  wealth.  I  pledge  to  night  for 
future  affluence.” 

“  I  was  thinking  about  that  myself,  Alice,”  said 
Morris,  laughing. 

“  Now  for  Mary’s  wish!”  exclaimed  Smith,  rub¬ 
bing  his  hands. 

“  Excuse  me,”  she  said,  with  evident  embarrass¬ 
ment  ;  “  I  do  not  use  wine.” 

“  Don’t  use  wine  !”  cried  Rubicon.  “  Why,  what’s 
the  matter,  Mary  ?” 

“  Neither  wine  nor  strong  drink,”  replied  her  bro¬ 
ther,  “ever  passes  those  pure  lips.  They  are  an 
abomination  to  her.  She’s  a  Rechabite.  It  would 
astonish  you  to  hear  her  lecture  against  tavern-keep¬ 
ers  and  rum-drinkers.” 

“  I  do  not  lecture,  brother,”  Mary  said. 

“  But  you  will  pledge  with  us?”  exclaimed  Smith. 

“  Without  drinking?” 

“  If  you  prefer  doing  so.” 

“  Well,  I  wish  to  be  happy.” 

“We  all  wish  that,  Mary.  Try  again.” 

“  I  wish  we  all  may  be  happy.” 

“  That’s  the  same  wish,  multiplied  by  six.  Try 
again.” 

There  was  a  pause.  The  girl,  still  embarrassed, 
appeared  to  be  summoning  courage  for  another  effort. 
In  this  interval,  her  brother  leaned  over  to  Smith,  and 
whispered,  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  all — 

22 


i 


324 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


“You  don’t  know  how  clear  her  intellect  is  when 
she  ain’t  on  a  batter .” 

“Nonsense,  Morris,”  said  his  companion.  “Do 
quit  your  mischief.” 

“I  wish,”  said  Mary,  “that  we  may  all  meet  to¬ 
gether  at  the  end  of  ten  years,  and  be  as  happy  as  we 
are  now.” 

“Ha!  ha!  ha!”  shouted  Morris.  “Ain’t  that  a 
bright  thought !  Can’t  leave  the  happy  off,  you  see.” 

“  I  think  it’s  a  very  good  wish,”  exclaimed  Rubi¬ 
con.  Smith  said  the  same. 

“  Now  for  our  pledges,”  added  the  latter,  offering 
the  glass  to  Rubicon. 

“  I  wish,”  said  the  young  man,  “  to  become  the 
first  in  my  profession.”  He  was  a  lawryer. 

“And  a  seat  in  Congress?”  asked  Morris. 

“  That  may  be  included.” 

“  I  wish,”  said  Morris,  as  the  wrine  wras  offered  to 
him,  “  that  I  may  ahvays  be  as  merry  as  I  am  now\” 

“  And  laugh  at  people  as  you  do  now  ?”  asked 
-  Smith. 

“  Certainly.  That’s  part  of  the  wish.” 

“  It’s  a  very  bad  one,”  said  Rubicon. 

“  Do  not  wish  that,  brother,”  Mary  said,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 

“  Well,  for  your  sake,  Mary,  I  will  leave  the  laugh¬ 
ing  out.  Now  Smith,  for  yours — it  will  be  a  grand 
one,  too.” 

“  I  wish  for  success  in  business,”  he  replied,  emp 
tying  his  glass. 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


325 


“  Why,  that’s  the  same  as  Rubicon’s,  only  substi¬ 
tuting  merchant  for  lawyer. 

“  It’s  the  one  I  started  with,”  replied  Smith,  “and 
the  only  one  I  intended  to  give.  And  now,  as  we  are 
all  through,  let  us  mark  the  wish,  the  day,  and  date, 
in  our  journals  when  we  get  home,  and  look  at  it 
every  year,  when  the  same  day  comes  round.” 

“  A  grand  way  to  keep  up  old  acquaintance,”  an¬ 
swered  Rubicon. 

“  Why  have  none  of  you  wished  for  a  good  wife  ?” 
exclaimed  Alice  Southey. 

“  Because  we  can  get  one  without  wishing,”  re¬ 
plied  Morris.  There  was  a  faint  laugh. 

“  I  wonder  what  the  man  in  the  moon  would  wish 
if  he  saw  us  to-night,”  said  Smith. 

“  He  would  wish,”  answered  Rubicon,  “  that  that 
little  party  down  there  in  the  boat  were  not  so  deeply 
under  lunar  influence.” 

“I  think  he  would  wish,”  said  Mary,  “that  we 
might  not  be  disappointed  in  our  wishes.” 

Such,  in  substance,  is  a  portion  of  the  conversation 
with  which  the  little  party  beguiled  the  time  as  their 
boat  floated  down  the  Delaware.  It  may  be  trifling 
or  silly — and  how  often  is  the  conversation  of  young 
persons,  during  a  whole  evening,  supremely  silly — 
yet  it  at  least  originated  in  a  solemn  feeling — the  de¬ 
sire  prevalent  in  every  one’s  bosom,  to  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  future,  and,  if  possible,  read  concerning  what 
is  still  to  befall  him  in  life.  And  may  we  crave  the 
reader’s  indulgence  while,  in  a  few  words,  we  tell 
how  the  wish  of  each  was  accomplished? 


I 


326  THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

“The  times  of  1837”  is  an  expression  which,  in 
this  country,  conjures  up  to  thousands  of  families, 
spectacles  of  distress  and  ruin.  During  the  four  years 
in  which  the  great  financial  embarrassment  continued, 
merchants  failed  under  heavy  liabilities,  professional 
men  were  dismissed  from  office,  wealthy  men,  of 
long  standing,  became  poor  in  a  day,  mechanics 
roamed  despairing  from  town  to  town,  begging  for 
employment.  Business  and  credit  were  equally 
stagnated. 

In  the  summer  of  1840,  during  the  great,  presiden¬ 
tial  canvass,  which  signalized  that  year,  a  small  steam¬ 
boat  started  from  Philadelphia,  having  on  board  a 
number  of  plainly  dressed  men,  most  of  them  mecha¬ 
nics.  Some  held  in  their  hands  fishing  lines,  others 
baskets,  with  various  kinds  of  wares,  and  a  few  car¬ 
ried  bundles  of  the  daily  papers.  One  man,  who  had 
evidently  seen  better  days,  stood  with  his  arms  folded, 
looking  out  upon  the  river.  He  spake  at  intervals 
with  a  friend  who  sat  beside  him.  After  the  boat  had 
been  out  about  half  an  hour,  he  turned  to  the  other 
and  said — 

“  Twelve  years  ago,  while  on  a  sailing  party,  in  this 
same  spot,  I  wished  for  success  in  business.” 

“  And  with  every  prospect  of  success  V9  said  his 
friend. 

“Yes;  I  wras  sure  of  it — too  sure.  And  see  what 
I  am  to-day.” 

Other  words  of  conversation  followed.  Two  or  three 
men  who  sat  near,  overheard  them,  and  appeared  to 
listen.  Both  the  speakers  resumed  their  silence,  and 


THE  PLEDGE  B  V  MOONLIGHT. 


327 


the  boat  moved  on.  At  length  the  man  who  had 
first  spoken,  passed  to  another  quarter  of  the  boat, 
and,  seating  himself,  began  to  arrange  some  fishing 
tackle. 

At  that  moment,  a  man,  whose  countenance  ex¬ 
hibited  fine  intellectual  features,  though  evidently 
abused  by  indulgence  in  drinking,  approached,  and 
sat  down  beside  him. 

“  Is  your  name  Smith  ?”  inquired  the  stranger. 

44  Yes,  sir.” 

“  Mine  is  Rubicon.” 

The  man  dropped  his  lines.  “  John  Rubicon?”  he 
inquired,  with  a  wild  expression  of  countenance. 

“  Yes,”  replied  the  other,  seizing  the  proffered  hand. 
44 1  am  one  of  those  who  pledged  their  wishes  with 
you,  twelve  years  ago.” 

44  And  is  Morris  still  living  ?”  Smith  asked. 

44  No;  he  died  miserably,  in  an  almshouse.” 

44  Poor  fellow  !  He  was  a  merry  soul.  I  loved  to 
hear  his  loud  laugh,  although  he  used  to  ridicule  me. 
Every  body  seemed  to  like  him,  although  he  joked  at 
the  expense  of  all.  What  caused  his  death  ?” 

44  Drinking  rum.  He  became  so  low  as  to  associate 
with  the  vilest  loafers,  and  to  lie  all  night  in  alleys 
or  gutters.” 

44  Poor  Mary!”  answered  Smith;  44  it  must  grieve 
her  sadly.” 

44  It  don’t  grieve  her  now,”  replied  Rubicon.  44  She 
was  buried  four  years  ago.  If  there  be  any  truth  m 
people  dying  with  broken  hearts,  she  died  with  one. 
It  was  not  her  own  fault,  poor  thing.” 


328 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


“  She  was  a  sweet  girl,”  said  Smith,  with  a  sigh. 
“  So  harmless,  too.  I  used  to  think  if  any  one  was 
ever  sent  to  this  world  to  make  others  happy,  it  was 
she.” 

“  Do  you  remember  her  wish  ?”  asked  Rubicon. 

“  I  remember  it.  It  has  not  been  accomplished.” 

“  What  a  wild  girl  Harriet  was !” 

“  Yes ;  I  remember,  she  wished  to  be  a  fairy.'  Do 
you  know  what  became  of  her?” 

“  She  married  a  worthless  sot.  Her  disposition,  you 
know,  was  not  like  Mary’s.  The  two  quarreled,  and 
at  length  parted.  Harriet,  herself,  began  to  drink 
hard.  Indeed,  she  had  always  been  too  fond  of  wine. 
She  became  a  loathsome  object,  and  at  last  died  of 
typhus  fever — so  the  physician  said.  I  never  heard 
what  became  of  her  husband.” 

“  And  do  you  know  any  thing  about  Alice 
Southey?” 

A  strange  expression  of  mingled  grief  and  remorse 
passed  over  Rubicon’s  countenance.  He  paused, 
hesitated,  and  turned  pale.  Smith  almost  involun¬ 
tarily  repeated  his  question. 

“  She  was  my  wife,  George.” 

There  was  a  silence  of  many  minutes.  Smith  spoke 
first. 

“  So  we  two  only  are  left  of  all  that  gay  evening 
party.  Even  we  are  changed,  John.” 

“  I  am,”  replied  Rubicon,  bitterly.  “  For  six  years 
I  struggled — struggled  manfully  for  eminence  in  my 
profession.  It  was  vain.  All  my  plans  and  exertions 
were  frustrated.  A  viper  had  twined  around  my  ex- 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


329 


istence,  which  paralyzed  my  arm,  and  poisoned  my 
hopes.  It  was  the  wine  cup,  Smith,  the  wine  cup! 
Ah !  if  I  had  wished  to  be  delivered  from  it,  and  kept 
my  wish !” 

“  But  you  have  reformed  ?” 

“  Do  not  mock  me,  Smith.  To-day  I  have  reformed, 
and  yesterday,  because  my  last  cent  is  gone.  I  could 
tell  you  that  would  make  you  pity  me.” 

“  And  why  don’t  you  reform  ?” 

“  Ask  the  Delaware  why  it  still  flows  onward.” 

“ Listen,  my  friend,”  said  Smith.  “I,  too,  was  a 
drunkard,  even  to  the  last  stage  of  drunkenness.  I 
felt  in  despair,  as  you  do.  One  night  I  went  to  a 
meeting  of  the  Washingtonians.  Many  told  how  they 
had  reformed,  and,  at  last,  I  know  not  how,  I  stepped 
forward  and  signed  the  pledge.  ‘Fool,’  I  said  to  my 
self,  as  I  went  out, ‘  you  will  break  it  to-morrow  morn¬ 
ing.’  I  have  kept  it  faithfully  until  this  day.  The 
Washingtonians  aided  me  to  get  work,  and,  until 
lately,  I  made  a  comfortable  living,  even  during  these 
hard  times.  Let  me  entreat  you,  Rubicon,  to  sign 
the  tee-total  pledge.  There  is  virtue  in  it.” 

“  It’s  useless,”  said  the  other,  with  a  sigh.  “  I 
could  never  keep  it.” 

His  friend  entreated ;  but  the  unhappy  man,  though 
still  alive  to  the  finer  feelings  which  had  distinguished 
him  in  a  better  day,  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  The 
conversation  lagged,  and  was  dropped.  At  the  first 
stopping-place,  Rubicon  arose  to  leave  the  boat.  He 
shook  hands  with  his  former  friends,  spoke  a  few 
words,  and  stepped  ashore.  As  the  boat  pushed  off, 


330 


vf 


THE  PLEDGE  BY  MOONLIGHT. 

Smith  watched  him  slowly  ascending  the  w’harf,  with 
feeble  and  irregular  step. 

How  strange  the  contrast  between  the  gay  com¬ 
pany,  pledging  their  hopes  by  moonlight,  and  the 
two  poor  wanderers,  parting  with  each  other  on  the 
shores  of  the  Delaware  ! 


i 


(332) 


JAM£S  boyntow  axtkh  his  fall 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


By  Mrs  Jane  C.  Campbell. 


Of  all  the  woe,  and  want,  and  wretchedness,  which 
awaken  one’s  compassion ;  of  all  the  scenes  of  misery 
which  call  so  loudly  for  sympathy,  there  is  none  that 
so  harrows  up  the  feelings  as  the  drunkard’s  home  ! 
Look  at  him  who  began  life  with  the  love  of  friends, 
the  admiration  of  society,  the  prospect  of  extensive 
usefulness;  look  at  him  in  after  years,  when  he  has 
learned  to  love  the  draught,  which,  we  shudder  while 
we  say  it,  reduces  him  to  the  level  of  a  brute.  Where 
is  now  his  usefulness?  Where  the  admiration,  where 
the  love  that  once  were  his?  Love!  none  but  the 

r 

love  of  a  wife,  or  a  child,  can  cling  to  him  in  his 
degradation.  Look  at  the  woman  who,  when  she  re¬ 
peated  “  for  better  for  worse,”  would  have  shrunk 
with  terror  had  the  faintest  shadow  of  the  “  worse” 
fallen  upon  her  young  heart.  Is  that  she  who,  on  her 
bridal  dav,  was  adorned  with  such  neatness  and  taste? 
Ah  me  !  what  a  sad  change!  And  the  children,  for 
whom  he  thanked  God  at  their  birth ;  the  little  ones, 
of  whom  he  had  been  so  proud,  whom  he  had  dandled 
on  his  knees,  and  taught  to  lisp  the  endearing  name 

(333) 


334 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


of  father.  See  them  trembling  before  him,  and  en¬ 
deavouring  to  escape  his  violence  !  Look  at  the 
empty  basket,  and  the  full  bottle — the  natural  wants 
of  the  body  denied  to  satisfy  the  unnatural  cravings 
of  a  depraved  appetite  !  Oh  God,  have  pity  upon  the 
drunkard’s  home  ! 

The  picture  is  a  sad  one ;  and  who  that  looks  upon 
it  but  would  fearfully  turn  aside  from  the  first  step 
to  ruin  ? 

We,  too,  have  a  tale  to  tell,  which,  it  pains  us  to 
acknowledge,  contains  more  truth  than  fiction. 

James  Boynton  was  the  first  born  of  his  parents, 
and  a  proud  and  happy  mother  was  Mrs.  Boynton, 
when  her  friends  gathered  around  her  to  look  at  her 
pretty  babe.  Carefully  was  he  tended,  and  all  his 
infantile  winning  ways  were  treasured  as  so  many 
proofs  of  his  powers  of  endearment. 

In  wisdom  has  the  Almighty  hidden  the  deep  se¬ 
crets  of  futurity  from  mortal  ken.  When  the  mother 
first  folds  her  infant  to  her  heart,  could  she  look 
through  the  long  vista  of  years,  and  see  the  suffering, 
the  sin,  the  shame,  which  may  be  the  portion  of  her 
child,  would  she  not  ask  God  in  mercy  to  take  the 
infant  to  himself?  Would  she  not  unrepiningly,  nay, 
thankfully,  bear  all  the  agony  of  seeing  her  little  one, 
with  straightened  limbs,  folded  hands,  and  shrouded 
form,  carried  from  her  bosom  to  its  baby-grave?  And 
yet,  not  one  of  all  the  thousands  who  are  steeped  in 
wickedness  and  crime,  but  a  mother’s  heart  has  glad¬ 
dened  when  the  soft  eye  first  looked  into  hers,  and 
the  soft  cheek  first  nestled  on  her  own.  And,  still 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


335 


more  awful  thought !  not  one  of  all  these  Pariahs  of 
society  but  has  an  immortal  soul ;  to  save  which,  the 
Son  of  God  left  his  glory,  and  agonized  upon  the 
cross  ! 

James  grew  up  a  warm-hearted  boy,  and  among  his 
young  companions  was  a  universal  favourite.  “  Jim 
Boynton  is  too  good-natured  to  refuse  doing  any  thing 
we  ask,”  said  Ned  Granger  one  day  to  a  school-fel¬ 
low,  who  feared  that  James  would  not  join  a  party  of 
rather  doubtful  character,  which  was  forming  for  what 
they  called  a  frolic.  And  this  the  truth.  Here  lay 
the  secret  of  James  Boynton’s  weakness — he  was  too 
good-natured ;  for  this  very  desirable,  and  truly 
amiable  quality,  unless  united  with  firmness  of  cha¬ 
racter,  is  often  productive  of  evil.  But  we  pass  over 
his  boyish  life,  and  look  at  him  in  early  manhood. 

He  had  a  fine  figure,  with  a  handsome,  intelligent 
countenance ;  and  his  manners  have  received  their 
tone  and  polish  from  a  free  intercourse  in  refined 
circles.  He  passed  his  college  examination  with  credit 
to  himself,  but,  from  sheer  indecision  of  character, 
hesitated  in  choosing  a  profession.  At  this  time,  an 
uncle,  who  resided  at  the  South,  was  about  retiring 
from  mercantile  life,  and  he  proposed  that  James 
should  enter  with  him  as  a  junior  partner,  while  he 
would  remain  for  a  year  or  two  to  give  his  nephew 
the  benefit  of  his  experience.  The  business  was  a 
lucrative  one,  and  the  proposal  was  accepted. 

James  left  his  home  at  the  North,  and  went  to  try 
his  fortune  amid  new  scenes  and  new  temptations. 
His  uncle  received  him  warmly,  for  the  old  man  had 


336 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


no  children  of  his  own,  and  James  was  his  godchild, 
His  uncle’s  position  in  society,  and  his  own  frank 
and  gentlemanly  demeanour,  won  him  ready  access  to 
the  hospitality  of  Southern  friends,  and  it  was  not 
Jong  before  he  fell  in  love  with  a  pretty  orphan  girl, 
whom  he  frequently  met  at  the  house  of  a  common 
acquaintance.  That  the  girl  was  portionless,  was 
no  demerit  in  his  uncle’s  eyes.  Not  all  his  trea¬ 
sures,  and  they  were  large,  had  choked  the  avenues 
of  the  old  man’s  heart,  and  the  young  people  were 
made  happy  by  his  approval  of  their  union. 

After  a  visit  to  his  friends  in  the  North,  James  re¬ 
turned  wTith  his  bride ;  and,  in  a  modern  house,  fur¬ 
nished  with  every  luxury,  the  happy  pair  began  their 
wedded  life.  And  now,  who  so  blessed  as  Boynton  ? 
Three  years  passed  away,  and  two  children  make 
their  home  still  brighter.  Does  no  one  see  the  cloud, 
not  bigger  than  a  man’s  hand,  upon  the  verge  of  the 
moral  horizon  ? 

Boynton’s  dislike  to  saying  “  no,”  when  asked  to 
join  a  few  male  friends  to  dinner,  or  on  a  party  of 
pleasure ;  his  very  good  nature,  which  made  him  so 
desirable  a  companion,  were  the  means  of  leading  him 
to  the  steps  to  ruin. 

“  Come,  Boyntonr  another  glass.” 

“Excuse  me,  my  dear  fellow,  I  have  really  taken 
too  much  already.” 

“Nonsense!  It  is  the  parting  glass,  you  must 
take  it.” 

And  Boynton,  wanting  firmness  of  character, 
yielded  to  the  voice  of  the  tempter.  Need  we  say 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


337 


that,  with  indulgence,  the  love  of  poison  was  strength¬ 
ened  ? 

For  a  while  the  unfortunate  man  strove  to  keep  up 
appearances.  He  was  never  seen  during  the  day  in 
a  state  of  intoxication ;  and  from  a  doze  on  the  sofa 
in  the  evening,  or  a  heavy  lethargic  sleep  at  night, 
he  would  awake  to  converse  with  his  friends,  or  at¬ 
tend  at  his  counting-room,  without  his  secret  habit 
being  at  all  suspected. 

But  who  that  willingly  dallies  with  temptation  can 
fortell  the  end?  Who  can  “lay  the  flattering  unction 
to  his  soul,”  that  in  a  downward  course  he  can  stop 
when  he  pleases,  and,  unharmed,  retrace  his  steps? 
Like  the  moth,  circling  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  flame, 
until  the  insect  falls  with  scorched  wing,  a  victim  to 
its  own  temerity,  so  will  the  pinions  of  the  soul  be 
left  scathed  and  drooping. 

Soon  Boynton  began  to  neglect  his  business,  and 
was  secretly  pointed  out  as  a  man  of  intemperate 
habits.  At  last  he  was  shunned,  shaken  off,  by  the 
very  man  who  led  him  astray.  Who  are  most  guilty? 
Let  Heaven  judge.  Let  us  pause,  and  ask  why  it  is, 
that  so  many  look  upon  a  fellowr  being  verging  to  the 
brink  of  ruin,  without  speaking  one  persuasive  word, 
or  doing  one  kindly  act,  to  lead  him  back  to  virtue  ? 
Why  it  is,  that  wrhen  fallen,  they  thrust  him  farther 
down  by  taunting  and  contempt.  Oh,  such  wras  not 
the  spirit  of  Him  who  came  “  to  seek  and  save  that 
which  was  lost,”  such  was  not  the  spirit  of  Him  who 
said,  “  neither  do  I  condemn  thee ;  go  and  sin  no  more.” 
How  often,  instead  of  throwing  the  mantle  of  charity 


338 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


over  a  brother’s  sin,  instead  of  telling  him  his  fault, 
“between  thee  and  him  alone,”  it  is  bared  to  the 
light  of  day,  trumpeted  to  a  cold  and  censure-loving 
world,  until  the  victim  either  sinks  into  gloomy  de¬ 
spondency,  and  believes  it  hopeless  for  him  to  attempt 
amendment,  or  else  stands  forth  in  bold  defiance,  and 
rushes  headlong  to  his  ruin,  not  one  human  being 
stands  so  perfect  in  his  isolation,  as  to  be  wholly  un¬ 
moved  by  contact  with  his  fellows!  what  need  then,’ 
for  the  daily  exercise  of  that  godlike  charity  which 
“suffereth  long  and  is  kind,”  which  “  rejoiceth  not  in 
iniquity,”  which  “beareth  all  things,  believeth  all 
things,  endureth  all  things  !” 

Seven  years  have  gone  with  their  records  to  eter¬ 
nity  ;  where  is  James  Boynton  now?  In  one  room  of 
a  miserable  dilapidated  tenement,  inhabited  by  many 
victims  of  poverty  and  vice,  lives  he  who  on  his  wed¬ 
ding  day  entered  a  home  which  taste  and  luxury  ren¬ 
dered  enviable.  Squalor  and  discomfort  are  on  every 
side.  His  four  children  are  pale  and  sickly  from 
want  of  proper  food,  and  close  confinement  in  that 
deleterious  atmosphere,  they  have  learned  to  hide 
away  when  they  hear  their  father’s  footsteps,  for,  alas! 
to  his  own,  he  is  no  longer  the  good-natured  man. 
Fallen  in  his  own  esteem,  frequently  the  subject  of 
ribald  mirth,  his  passions  have  become  inflamed,  and 
he  vents  his  ill-nature  on  his  defenceless  family.  He 
no  longer  makes  even  a  show  of  doing  something  for 
their  support;  and  to  keep  them  from  starving,  his 
wife  works  whenever,  and  at  whatever  she  can  find 
employment. 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


339 


A  few  years  more,  and  where  is  Mrs.  Boynton? 
Tremble  ye  who  set  an  example  to  your  families  of 
which  you  cannot  foretell  the  consequences !  Tremble 
ye  whom  God  has  made  to  be  the  protectors,  the 
guides,  the  counsellors,  of  the  woman  ye  have  vowed 
to  love  and  cherish !  Mrs.  Boynton,  like  her  husband 
has  fallen.  In  an  evil  hour,  harassed  by  want,  ill- 
used  by  her  husband,  she  tasted  the  fatal  cup.  It 
produced  temporary  forgetfulness,  from  which  she 
awoke  to  a  sense  of  shame  and  anguish.  Ah !  she 
had  no  mother,  no  sister,  no  women  friends,  who 
truly  cared  for  her,  to  warn,  to  plead,  to  admonish; 
again  was  she  tempted,  again  she  tasted,  and  that 
squalid  home  was  rendered  tenfold  more  wretched, 
by  the  absence  of  all  attempt  at  order.  However 
great  may  be  the  sorrow  and  distress  occasioned  by  a 
man’s  love  of  drink,  it  is  not  to  be  compared  to  the 
deep  wretchedness  by  the  same  cause  in  a  woman, 
and  it  is  matter  for  thankfulness,  that  so  few  men 
draff  down  their  wives  with  them  in  their  fall. 

Providence  raised  up  a  friend  who  took  the  bare¬ 
footed  children  of  the  Boyntons  from  being  the  daily 
witnesses  of  the  evil  habits  of  their  parents ;  and  so 
dulled  were  all  the  finer  feelings  of  nature,  that 
James  Boynton  parted  from  them  without  a  struggle. 

Like  the  Lacedemonians  of  old,  who  exposed  the 
vice  to  render  it  hateful  in  the  eyes  of  the  beholders, 
we  might  give  other  and  more  harrowing  scenes  from 
real  life ;  but  let  this  one  suffice  !  Thank  God,  for  the 
change  which  public  opinion  has  already  wrought ! 
Thank  God,  for  the  efforts  which  have  been  made 

23 


340 


STEPS  TO  RUIN. 


to  stay  the  moral  pestilence !  Oh,  it  is  fearful  to 
think  how  many  homes  have  been  desolate — how 
many  hearts  have  been  broken — how  many  fine 
minds  have  been  ruined — how  many  lofty  intellects 
have  been  humbled  !  It  is  fearful  to  think  of  the  mad¬ 
ness — the  crime — the  awful  death— which  follow  the 
Steps  to  Ruin ! 


NED  SUMMERS,  THE  CABIN-BOY. 


By  Ameril. 


A  LARGE  vessel,  gliding  calmly  upon  the  placid 
waters  of  a  southern  sea,  is  a  beautiful  object ;  and 
w  hen  those  on  board,  gathered  within  a  little  world  of 
their  own,  associate  in  groups  upon  the  deck,  telling 

(341) 


342 


NED  SUMMERS 


tales  of  home,  or  gazing  upon  the  waste  of  waters, 
the  picture  seems  too  lovely  and  romantic  for  a  scene 
of  real  life. 

The  afternoon  sun  of  a  summer  day,  on  the  seas  of 
India,  shone  on  such  a  scene.  Captain  Charles 
Giddings,  with  a  full  crew  and  several  passengers, 
was  returning  from  a  voyage  to  Calcutta.  The  ship 
scarcely  moved  upon  the  waters,  and  all  the  softness 
of  a  tropical  clime,  pervaded  the  quiet  air.  Every 
one  was  upon  deck — some  reading,  some  leaning 
over  the  ship’s  side,  looking  into  the  waters,  some 
collected  in  groups,  talking  or  reclining  silently  on 
couches.  The  captain,  the  first  mate,  and  the  cabin- 
boy  were  together,  regulating  the  compass,  which  had 
been  injured  by  a  fall.  In  an  arm-chair,  not  far  from 
these  three,  sat  the  mate’s  daughter,  a  young  woman 
of  nineteen,  reading.  Between  this  young  lady  and 
the  cabin-boy  an  intimacy  had  sprung  up  during  the 
voyage,  which  appeared  in  a  fair  way  to  ripen  into  a 
feeling  stronger  than  mere  affection.  This  the  father 
had  not  discouraged,  but,  on  the  contrary;  had  often 
been  heard  to  say,  that  of  all  the  young  men  whom 
he  knew,  none  was  more  esteemed  by  him  than  Ned 
Summers,  the  cabin-boy. 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Mary  Harper,  the 
mate’s  daughter,  had  been  at  sea.  The  interests  of 
her  mother’s  family  had  alone  induced  her  to  under¬ 
take  it ;  for  her  only  brother  had  been  lost  in  a  storm 
some  five  years  before ;  since  which  she  had  enter¬ 
tained  an  instinctive  dread  of  the  ocean.  Her  unex¬ 
pected  acquaintance  with  Ned  had,  however,  tended 


NED  SUMMERS. 


343 


to  modify  this  dread,  and,  in  his  company  she  forgot 
the  dangers  of  the  watery  element,  or  the  memory  of 
frightful  tales  concerning  storms  and  shipwrecks. 
During  the  afternoon  she  had  amused  her  companion 
by  reading  from  a  collection  of  tales  and  poetry  ;  and, 
soon  as  he  was  relieved  from  the  task  of  arranging 
the  compass,  he  again  seated  himself  beside  her  on 
a  broken  cask,  and  listened  while  she  resumed  a  half- 
finished  tale.  They  were  interrupted  by  the  tones 
of  some  one  singing. 

“  Let  us  listen,”  said  Mary,  closing  her  book. 

Ned  would  have  rather  heard  her  read  the  tale; 
but  as  she  arose,  he  joined  her,  and  walked  towards 
the  ring  which  the  passengers  had  formed  around 
the  singer. 

“  I  know  that  song,”  said  Mary;  “brother  and  I 
used  to  sing  it  together.” 

Ned  turned  towards  her,  and  saw  that  a  shade  of 
sorrow  had  gathered  round  her  former  playful  fea¬ 
tures.  Wishing  to  change  the  conversation,  he  re¬ 
plied — 

“  Let  us  listen — he  is  going  to  sing  again.” 

“  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  any  more,”  she  answered, 
turning  away.  “  Do  you  never  feel  afraid  upon  the 
sea,  Ned  ?” 

“  No,  I  do  not.  During  more  than  four  years  I  have 
acted  as  cabin-boy ;  and  now  I  am  as  much  at  home 
in  a  ship  as  on  land.” 

1“  I  wish  I  could  say  so,”  Mary  answered  ;  “  but  I 
am  a  foolish  creature  about  water.  I  would  die  of 
mere  fright  in  a  storm — that  I  know  well.  Besides, 


344 


NED  SUMMERS. 


Ned,  something  seems  to  tell  me  that  this  voyage 
will  not  be  a  lucky  one.  Who  knows  but  that  after 
coming  so  far  to  seek  a  fortune,  I  may  find  only  a 
grave  ?’ 

There  was  something  so  sad  in  these  words  that 
Ned,  for  some  moments,  could  not  reply.  But  at  last, 
while  a  shade  of  sympathy  passed  over  his  rough 
features,  he  answered — 

“  I  am  not  afraid  of  that,  Mary.  What  chance  is 
there  of  a  storm,  when  the  weather  has  been  fine 
for  so  many  weeks?  Even  if  there  should  be  one, 
our  ship  was  never  in  better  condition,  nor  our  offi¬ 
cers  more  vigilant.’7 

“But  you  told  me  yourself,  Ned,  that  a  storm  is 
always  more  violent  after  a  long  calm.” 

“So  I  did,  Mary;  but - ”  He  paused,  and 

looked  at  her  in  hesitation. 

“Well,  never  mind,  Ned,”  she  said,  in  a  livelier 
tone.  “  I  am  timid  and  foolish,  that  I  know;  but  as 
you  are  a  better  sailor  than  I  am,  I  will  trust  in  your 
skill.” 

Ned  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  mate  called  him. 
Mary  resumed  her  seat  in  the  chair,  and  occupied  the 
time  in  watching  the  operations  of  the  crew.  She 
was  interrupted  by  her  father’s  voice. 

“  Why,  captain,  the  barometer  is  falling !” 

“  Falling,  sir?”  replied  Captain  Giddings. 

“  Yes,  sir — and  rather  rapidly,  too.” 

“I  was  afraid  of  it,”  whispered  the  captain,  as  he 
approached.  “  A  storm  has  been  gathering  for  seve¬ 
ral  days,  exactly  as  it  did  this  time  last  year,  while 


NED  SUMMERS. 


345 


we  were  bearing  west  from  Java  Let  the  boatswain 
call  all  hands  to  duty.” 

In  a  moment  every  thing  was  in  activity,  where 
formerly  there  was  languid  indifference.  The  pas¬ 
sengers  retired  to  the  cabins,  the  sails  were  taken  in, 
and  the  rigging  made  fast  and  trim  for  weathering 
the  storm.  As  if  by  magic,  the  ship  was  divested  of 
its  gallant  appearance,  and  lay  a  motionless  hull,  with 
bare  spars,  upon  the  still  bosom  of  the  ocean.  There 
was  something  sublime  in  the  calmness  with  which 
each  man  stood  at  his  post,  and,  without  speaking, 
gazed  over  the  waters  for  the  coming  of  the  hurricane. 

“How  is  the  barometer  now,  sir?”  inquired  the 
captain. 

“  Risen,  slightly,”  replied  the  mate. 

“  Well,  don’t  let’s  wait  for  danger.  And  by-the- 
by,  a  little  brandy  will  do  us  no  harm,  whether  the 
storm  comes  or  not.”  He  walked  towards  his  desk 
as  he  spoke,  and  raising  the  lid,  brought  out  a  decan- 

Iter.  Pouring  out  a  glass  full,  he  offered  it  to  the 
mate. 

When  sober,  Captain  Giddings  was  an  able  officer, 
and  a  kind  man ;  when  intoxicated,  he  was  obstinate, 
passionate,  and  brutal.  He  could,  however,  indulge 
moderately  in  drink,  without  its  affecting  materially 
his  disposition  or  his  official  skill ;  but,  unfortunately, 
after  taking  liquor,  he  often  went  beyond  the  bounds 
of  moderation,  and  became  either  helplessly,  or 
brutally  drunk.  The  mate  knew  this  well ;  and, 
though  he  was  himself  addicted  to  drinking,  he  re¬ 
coiled  from  the  thought  of  indulging  his  appetite,  on 


346 


NED  SUMMERS. 


the  eve  of  a  tropical  storm.  He  respectfully  declined 
the  proffered  glass. 

“  Nonsense!”  said  the  captain.  “You  will  feel 
the  want  of  it  in  a  dashing  sea.” 

“Excuse  me,  captain,”  the  mate  replied.  “We 
shall  want  clear  heads  if  the  storm  is  like  the  one  we 
had  last  year.” 

“  Then  I  suppose,”  said  the  captain, laughing,  “you 
would  advise  me  not  to  drink.” 

“I  would,  sir,  with  all  respect.  There  will  be  time 
to  drink  to-morrow.” 

“Well,  mate,”  replied  the  captain,  “I  don’t  know 
what  ails  you ;  but  as  to  myself,  I  have  no  fears  of 
the  wildest  storm  that  ever  raged  in  the  Indian  sea. 
This  ship  will  weather  it — that  I  feel  certain  of.  So 
here  is  to  your  health.”  As  he  spoke,  he  swallowed 
the  brandy. 

Still  the  storm  delayed.  The  men  resumed  their 
gaiety,  jesting  with  each  other,  or  singing  among  the 
shrouds.  The  cabin-boy  found  a  spare  moment  to  run 
below  deck;  and  from  every  face,  save  that  of  the 
mate,  the  previous  anxiety  had  departed.  The  cap¬ 
tain  emptied  another  glass  of  brandy.  Then,  turn¬ 
ing  to  Ned,  who  had  just  returned  to  the  deck,  he 
exclaimed — 

“Ned,  are  you  afraid  of  the  storm  ?” 

“  No,  indeed,  sir,”  replied  the  cabin-boy.  “  With  our 
good  ship  and  our  good  captain,  I  think  we  may 
brave  it.” 

“There!”  rejoined  the  captain,  turning  to  the 


NED  SUMMERS. 


347 


mate,  “  that’s  the  language  I  like  to  hear  from  my 
crew !” 

The  mate  nodded,  without  speaking;  but  in  his 
features  was  a  shade  of  mortified  dignity.  Turning 
to  the  cabin-boy,  he  whispered  a  few  wrords  in  his 
ear. 

“  I  don’t  know  what  ails  her,  sir,”  Ned  replied  in 
a  low  tone.  “  It  worries  me  to  hear  her  speak  of  her 
brother,  and  then  of  the  coming  storm,  as  though 
there  was  some  connection  between  them.  I  tried  to 
comfort  her,  but  couldn’t.” 

“We  must  do  our  duty  to  night,”  said  the  mate, 
with  a  solemn  voice. 

Ned  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  Neither  of 
them  spoke  again  ;  but  the  impression  of  those  few 
words,  whose  meaning  was  deeper  than  their  utter¬ 
ance,  remained  with  him  throughout  the  night.  The 
captain  swallowed  another  half-pint  of  brandy. 

The  storm  still  delayed  — all  at  once  Captain  Gid- 
dings  exclaimed — 

“  What’s  the  use  in  waiting  so  long  for  a  blow  ! 
Hoist  the  topsails !” 

Every  one  started. 

“  For  heaven’s  sake,  not  now,  captain !”  said  the 
mate,  touching  his  hat. 

“  Sir !”  said  the  other,  “I  am  master  of  this  vessel! 
We  have  been  waiting  here  like  fools,  for  nearly 
two  hours,  just  because  somebody  bewitched  the 
barometer.” 

“  Let  me  entreat  you - ” 

“  Hoist  the  topsails,  I  say !” 


348 


NED  SUMMERS. 


“  Only  delay  one  hour,  sir,”  implored  the  mate. 

The  captain  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  deck,  and, 
with  an  oath,  repeated  the  command.  It  was  obeyed. 

“  Now  let  the  storm  come  !”  said  the  half  drunken 
man. 

There  was  a  deep  pause.  Old  sailors  cast  ominous 
looks  towards  the  west,  where  the  sun  was  just  set¬ 
ting  ;  and  the  mate,  folding  his  arms,  walked  thought¬ 
fully  backward  and  forward,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  deck.  An  oppressive  stillness  was  in  the  air ; 
low,  moaning  sounds  came,  at  times,  across  the 
waters  ;  and  from  the  bank  of  clouds  which  lay  piled 
upon  each  other  near  the  horizon,  red  hazy  mists 
shot  up,  which  seemed  to  spread  like  a  shroud  of 
blood  over  the  whole  face  of  the  sky.  The  sea 
seemed  molten  glass,  and  the  ship  was  buoyed  up 
upon  its  surface. 

But  the  storm  was  coming.  Though  the  sun  went 
down  in  fire,  the  sky  was  rapidly  disappearing  behind 
the  clouds,  and  the  air  suddenly  grew  black  as  mid¬ 
night.  Any  one  who  has  been  in  the  Indian  seas,  or 
even  among  the  groups  of  the  Western  archipelago, 
know  what  such  changes  portend.  The  mate,  rousing 
from  his  revery,  cast  one  glance  across  the  water,  and 
then  hurried  towards  the  captain. 

“  For  heaven’s  sake,  captain,  order  the  sails  to  be 
handed  !” 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered,  when  a  rustling 
sound,  like  that  of  a  deep  wood,  stirred  by  the  wind, 
was  heard.  The  mate  clenched  his  hands  with  a 
look  of  agony;  and  sailors  who  had  grown  gray 


NED  SUMMERS. 


349 


among  the  tropics,  held  their  breath,  and  grasped 
with  convulsive  energy  a  rope  or  a  mast.  In  the 
next  moment,  sails  and  rigging  were  whirled  into  the 
clouds ;  and  the  ship,  as  though  struck  by  a  battery 
of  guns,  went  careering  on  over  the  waters,  cracking 
and  starting  at  every  seam.  For  a  few  moments  all 
was  still.  Then  came  another  blast,  tearing  and 
shrieking  among  the  cordage ;  and  before  the  men 
could  utter  a  cry  of  horror,  a  third  one  struck  the 
devoted  ship,  bearing  away  the  main  topmast,  and 
causing  the  mizen  mast,  to  crack  like  the  report  of  a 
cannon.  Every  eye  was  raised,  with  an  expression 
of  horror,  towards  the  tottering  spar.  It  swayed  for  an 
instant,  with  the  motion  of  the  ship ;  but  the  next, 
with  a  fearful  crash,  it  came  down  over  the  vessel’s 
side.  Then  for  the  first  time  arose  wailings  of  agony 
as  strong  men,  clenching  still  the  ropes  which  had 
deceived  them,  were  hurried  on  through  the  foaming 
waters. 

During  this  scene  the  captain  was  hopelessly  drunk. 
His  orders  were  of  the  most  contradictory  nature, 
and  he  seemed  to  have  lost  all  the  clear-sighted  skill 
which  distinguished  him  at  other  times.  The  sailors 
soon  perceived  his  condition.  Every  eye  was  di¬ 
rected  towards  the  mate  as  a  last  resource.  He  ven¬ 
tured  to  assume  the  command.  The  hands  obeyed 
with  alacrity ;  and  very  soon  the  broken  mast  had 
been  cut  away,  the  other  spars  strengthened,  and 
every  shred  of  sail  removed. 

But  the  storm  had  only  commenced.  As  it  gathered 
darker  and  wilder  around  the  devoted  ship  one  after 


350 


NED  SUMMERS. 


# 


another  of  the  crew  was  swept  away,  and  the  masts 
creaked  fearfully  while  the  hurricane  swept  by  them. 
Before  nine  o’clock,  the  rudder  was  broken,  and  the 
vessel  became  unmanageable.  Then  the  scene  be¬ 
came  a  terrible  one.  The  once  gallant  bark,  with  its 
freight  of  human  souls,  rushing  headlong  before  the 
storm ;  the  hoarse  words  of  command ;  the  shrieks 
of  some  wretch,  hurried  from  his  post  to  a  watery 
grave ;  the  din  of  voices  from  the  cabin ;  the  crack¬ 
ing  of  spars ;  the  howlings  of  the  storm — rose  amid 
that  night’s  gloom,  like  the  revel  of  the  spirits,  who, 
as  is  fabled,  exult  over  the  miseries  of  mankind. 

But  a  wilder  scene  was  to  follow.  Hitherto  the 
passengers  had  remained  below.  Now  they  rushed 
together  upon  the  deck,  shrieking,  wringing  their 
hands,  and  praying  for  help.  Some  were  induced  to 
retire,  but  the  remainder  running  from  place  to  place 
with  frenzied  gestures,  mingled  their  cries  for  help 
with  the  noise  of  the  tempest.  Sometimes  a  wave 
■broke  over  the  deck  and  bore  with  it  one  of  their 
number;  but  the  survivors  merely  crowded  closer  to¬ 
gether,  thus  rendering  their  own  destruction  more 
easy.  A  few  clasped  the  captain’s  knees  and  begged 
him  to  save  them ;  strong  men  seized  a  rope  or  a 
spar,  and  clung  to  it  with  looks  of  despair ;  women 
rolled  helplessly  over  the  heaving  deck,  or  hung 
shrieking  round  the  forms  of  those  they  loved. 

Over  this  uproar,  a  loud  voice  was  heard, 

“  The  ship  has  sprung  a  leak  !” 

All  hands  were  called  to  the  pumps.  Men  who 
had  been  nursed  in  Oriental  luxury,  bared  their  arms, 


NED  SUMMERS. 


351 


and  worked  with  the  energy  of  life ;  even  women  at 
times  assisted.  The  mate  moved  from  group  to  group 
encouraging  them  by  his  voice  and  example.  The 
water  in  the  hold  decreased ;  and  as  a  few  trusty 
hands  endeavoured  to  repair  the  breach,  the  mate  ex¬ 
claimed  in  a  voice  of  hope  : — 

“Work  merrily,  lads!  If  we  can  arrest  the  leak 
all  may  go  well,  our  ship  is  still  strong !” 

They  worked  as  men  do,  when  they  toil  for  life. 
Amid  the  excitement  of  partial  success,  the  noise  of 
the  storm  was  for  a  while  unheeded,  and  each  seemed 
inspired  with  new  life.  Suddenly  a  terrific  crash 
was  heard;  the  ship  pitched  almost  upon  her  larboard 
side  ;  and  through  the  started  planks  came  the  surge, 
like  a  cataract,  flooding  the  hold,  overthrowing  and 

t 

stifling  those  nearest  to  it,  and  rendering  all  effort  at 
the  pumps  useless.  Then,  strong  hearts,  which  had 
braved  all  previous  danger  without  shrinking,  rushed 
on  deck,  and  flinging  their  arms  towards  heaven, 
shrieked  a  prayer  for  mercy. 

The  mainmast  had  fallen. 

“  Let  down  the  boats!”  cried  the  mate. 

The  first  boat  was  soon  on  the  waves.  Men  and 
women  crowded  into  it,  falling  over  each  other,  and 
pushing  weaker  ones  to  a  watery  grave.  Though  it 
was  in  a  moment  filled  to  suffocation,  others  held  in 
agony  to  the  ropes,  till  rude  hands  flung  away  their 
arms,  and  severing  the  cords,  launched  into  the  deep. 
At  that  moment  another  voice  arose. 

“We  are  among  breakers !” 

It  was  so.  The  boat,  with  all  its  freight,  was 


352 


NED  SUMMERS. 


sucked  within  the  foaming  vortex,  spun  round  and 
round,  and  sunk. 

“The  ship  has  struck!”  shouted  another. 

Then  arose  once  more  the  maddening  cry  of  de¬ 
spair,  and  each  clutched,  as  he  could,  some  fragment 
which  might  buoy  him  on  the  waves,  after  the  ship 
should  go  down. 

“The  life-boat !  the  life-boat !”  was  now  the  cry,  and 
many  rushed  towards  it. 

And  where,  amid  these  scenes,  was  Mary  Har¬ 
per?  There  are  a  few  among  the  walks  of  life,  who, 
though  usually  weak  and  timid,  yet,  in  the  hour  of 
danger,  display  a  calmness  and  heroism,  which  ap¬ 
pear  miraculous  to  persons  of  ordinary  courage 
Mary  was  one  of  these.  She  had  dreaded  the  storm 
before  it  approached ;  but  when  it  was  around  her, 
she  heard,  without  shrieking,  the  wind,  the  falling 
timbers,  and  the  uproar  on  deck.  Her  thoughts  were 
on  her  father  and  on  Ned.  When  the  ship  struck 
the  cabin-boy  was  by  her  side.  His  words  could  not 
be  heard  amid  the  uproar,  but  he  grasped  her  form 
tightly  with  one  arm,  while  with  the  other  he  held 
to  the  remaining  mast. 

“  Come  to  the  life-boat,”  she  at  length  heard  him 
say. 

They  sprang  forward.  It  was  full,  but  some  held 
out  their  arms  for  the  girl.  She  drew  back,  and 
looked  at  Ned. 

“  Cut  the  ropes !”  shouted  those  in  the  boat. 

“Go,  Mary,”  said  Ned,  “there  is  not  room  for 
both.” 


NED  SUMMERS 


353 


“  And  must  you  stay  here  ?” 

“  Do  not  think  of  me,  Mary. — Wait,  oh,  wait  one 
moment !”  he  shouted  to  the  men. 

Mary  turned  away.  “  I  will  stay  writh  you,  Ned,” 
she  whispered,  as  the  boat  was  hurried  off.  “I  am 
not  afraid  to  die !” 

By  this  time  the  ship  wTas  fast  sinking.  Those  who 
remained  on  board  had  lashed  themselves  to  large 
pieces  of  timber  as  their  only  chance  for  safety.  The 
mate,  unable  to  find  his  daughter,  and  thinking  that 
both  she  and  Ned  had  been  cast  away,  seized  a  part 
of  the  mainmast.  The  cabin-boy  still  held  to  Mary, 
clasping  her  waist  with  one  arm,  and  with  his  other 


354 


^  ED  SUMMERS. 


hand  holding  one  of  hers.  For  a  little  while,  no  voice 
was  heard.  It  was  the  silence  of  men,  sternly  wait¬ 
ing  the  approach  of  death. 

A  huge  wave  broke  over  the  deck.  Some  went 
with  it  into  the  ocean,  others  were  thrown  down,  or 
rolled  over  the  sides,  which  they  grasped  and  clung 
to.  Ned  was  thrown  senseless  against  the  stump  of 
one  of  the  masts.  When  he  arose,  the  wave  had 
passed.  He  called  on  the  name  of  Mary,  but  she  had 
gone  to  mingle  with  the  many  who,  during  that  fear¬ 
ful  night,  were  called  from  health  and  happiness  to  a 
grave  in  the  ocean.  Ignorant  of  her  fate,  he  ran 
wildly  along  the  deck,  calling  upon  her  name,  and 
searching  every  part  that  the  wTater  had  not  flooded. 
Then  a  stupor  came  over  his  feelings,  his  limbs  re¬ 
laxed  their  energy,  and  he  sunk  helplessly  upon  the 
deck.  The  front  part  of  the  ship,  on  which  Ned  lay, 
had  become  jammed  among  the  rocks,  and  was,  of 
course,  immoveable.  It  was  repeatedly  washed  by 
huge  waves,  but  being  protected  by  the  rocks,  did 
not  go  to  pieces.  Before  morning,  the  hinder  portion 
was  broken  off  and  swept  away.  Most  of  those  who 
had  remained  on  board  went  with  it.  The  mate  was 
among  them.  Three  or  four  saved  themselves  by 
being  tied  to  spars ;  the  rest  perished. 

And  where,  during  this  time,  was  the  man  whose 
intemperate  indulgence  of  his  appetite  had  thus 
trifled  so  fearfully  with  life  ? — he  who  had  engaged 
to  carry  his  vessel  safely  through  the  wildest  storm 
of  the  Indian  seas.  He  had  been  struck  by  the  main¬ 
mast  in  its  fall,  and  knocked  senseless  into  the  sea. 


NED  SUMMERS. 


355 


Two  days  afterwards,  Ned  and  five  companions 
were  relieved  by  a  vessel,  bound  for  England  from 
Calcutta.  He  never  resumed  his  occupation  as  cabin- 
boy  afterwards.  When  the  temperance  movement  be¬ 
gan  he  engaged  in  it  with  his  whole  soul,  and  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  seemed  almost  like  madness;  he 
laboured  among  those  whose  labours  were  among  the 
waters.  One  evening,  at  a  temperance  meeting,  he 
heard  an  aged  man  tell  of  a  shipwreck  in  which  he 
had  been  a  sufferer.  Two  of  his  children,  the  old 
sailor  said,  had  found  watery  graves,  and  in  both  in¬ 
stances  because  the  captain  had  been  intoxicated, 
When,  in  continuing,  he  told  that  one  of  them  had 
been  a  daughter,  the  pride  of  the  family,  Ned  sprang 
to  his  feet. 

\ 

“  Was  her  name  Mary,  sir?”  he  exclaimed. 

“  That  was  her  name,”  said  the  old  man. 

“  Mary  Harper  ?” 

“Yes;  my  name  is  Harper.” 

“  And  do  you  remember  the  cabin-boy,  whom  you 
told  to  do  his  duty  that  night?” 

The  old  man  trembled.  There  was  excitement 
among  the  spectators  too  intense  and  breathless  for 
utterance. 

“I  am  that  cabin-boy,”  added  Ned.  “  And,  sir,  I 
did  do  my  duty.  I  stood  by  Mary  till  stunned  by 
the  wave  which  bore  her  away.  I  would  have  plunged 
after  her,  but  there  was  no  strength  left  me.  Oh  !  it 
is  dreadful!  dreadful!”  and  he  seemed  again  amid 
the  scene  of  that  night’s  storm.  “  I  see  no  pleasure 
now,”  he  continued,  turning  to  those  around  him , 

24 


356 


NED  SUMMERS. 


“  my  heart  is  cold  and  blighted,  but  I  would  live  a  little 
longer,  that  I  might  behold  this  cause  in  which  we 
are  engaged  flourish,  until  none  will  be  found  to  op¬ 
pose  it.7’ 

He  rushed  towards  the  speaker’s  stand,  and  before 
he  had  relaxed  the  grasp  of  the  old  man’s  hand,  many 
had  come  forward  and  enrolled  their  names  on  the 
temperance  pledge. 


(358) 


CARO  LINK  WOOED 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 


Bt  A  me  re  e. 


“  Does  a  woman,  named  Sandford,  live  in  this  vil 
lage  ?”  inquired  a  gentleman  in  one  of  the  settlements 
on  the  Illinois,  of  a  backwoodsman  of  rather  suspi¬ 
cious  looking  appearance. 

‘‘Caddy  Sandford,  do  you  mean?”  The  man  nod¬ 
ded. 

“  She  lives  in  that  little  house  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fence,”  said  the  backwoodsman  pointing  with  his 
finger.  “You’ll  see  a  drunken  rascal  when  you  get 
there,  if  you  see  her  husband.” 

The  stranger  thanked  him  and  walked  on.  Scenes 
rude  and  disgusting  met  his  eye  at  every  step.  In 
one  place  two  men  lay  beside  the  road  asleep  and 
drunk;  a  little  further  on  a  hunter  was  skinning  a 
live  fox  ;  and  near  an  old  shed,  three  or  four  men 
were  engaged  in  a  fist  fight.  After  a  walk  of  ten 
minutes,  he  reached  the  log-house — a  wretched  one — 
and  knocked  at  the  door.  A  sickly  looking  woman, 
with  soiled  and  tattered  garments,  answered  the 
summons. 

“Is  this  Mrs.  Sandford?”  he  asked.  The  woman. 

(359) 


360  the  emigrant's  wife. 

nodded.  “  I  have  something  of  importance  to  tell 
you,”  he  continued ;  and  as  she  opened  the  door  still 
wider,  he  entered,  and  seated  himself  upon  a  chair. 
The  apartment  bore  the  marks  of  extreme  poverty. 
Two  or  three  chairs,  old  and  broken,  a  pine  table, 
some  earthen  dishes,  piled  upon  a  box,  and  a  heavy 
oak  bucket,  were  the  principal  household  articles. 
The  floor  was  almost  black,  and  in  many  places  char 
red.  Two  children  were  sitting  in  a  corner  playing 
together,  and  a  third  crying  for  food. 

“Were  you  born  in  this  settlement?"  said  the  man, 
with  a  low  voice  and  after  an  embarrassing  pause. 

“  No,  sir;  I  came  from  the  East." 

“  Is  your  husband  living?"  asked  the  stranger  in  the 
same  low  tone. 

“  He  is  living,"  the  woman  answered,  as  she  en¬ 
deavoured  to  still  the  cries  of  her  youngest  child. 

“  I  knew,"  said  the  stranger,  “  a  family  named  War¬ 
ren  that  lived  in  Connecticut;  one  of  its  members 
married  a  man  named  Sandford,  who  emigrated  to  the 
West,  about  ten  years  since.  If  you  are  the  person, 
I  have  something  important  for  you  to  hear." 

“  I  came  from  Hartford,  Connecticut,  at  about  the 
time  you  speak  of,"  the  woman  answered.  “  My 
father’s  name  was  James  Warren,  and  I  am  his  only 
daughter." 

“  I  believe,  I  knew  you  there,"  said  the  stranger, 
still  in  a  low  voice.  The  woman  looked  at  him,  with 
a  scrutinizing  eye ;  and  after  a  pause  replied  : — 

“Perhaps  I  have  forgotten  you;  yet,  there  is  in 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 


361 


your  voice  and  features  something  which  appears 
familiar  to  me.” 

“  Caroline !”  said  the  man,  rising  suddenly,  and  re¬ 
moving  his  hat  which  he  had  kept  on  during  the 

conversation.  The  woman  started  and  shrieked.  It 

> 

was  her  brother. 

We  will  not  describe  the  scene  that  followed.  It 
was  long  before  either  the  brother  or  sister  recovered 
from  its  effects,  sufficiently  to  speak.  Caroline  at 
length  said — 

“  I  thought  you  had  all  forgotten  me,  and  I  was 
willing  to  die  alone  in  this  wild  place.  Oh  brother, 
it  is  too  much  to  see  one  of  you  at  last !” 

“  We  did  not  forget  you,  Caroline,”  he  said.  “  There 
has  been  many  a  tear  shed  over  the  memory  of  you 
at  home.  We  could  obtain  no  tidings  of  you  ;  for 
we  all  supposed  that  Sandford  had  gone  to  Missouri, 
as  he  promised  to  do.  I  have  been  there  three  times 
to  search  for  you.” 

“  And  did  father  forgive  me,  for  marrying  against 
his  will?”  exclaimed  the  poor  woman,  sobbing,  as 
the  recollection  of  former  days  came  over  her. 

“  Do  not  doubt  it,  sister.  There  is  not  one  of  us, 
who  would  not  stretch  out  his  arms  to  embrace  you, 
if  you  would  return  to  Connecticut.” 

“  If  I  could  see  mother  but  once  more — ”  she  sob¬ 
bed — “  it  would  make  me  forget  the  sad  hours  I  have 
spent  here.” 

“Are  these  all  your  children,  sister?”  he  inquired, 
anxious  to  divert  her  attention  from  the  remembrance 
of  her  change  of  fortune.  The  woman  nodded.  He 


362 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 


raised  the  youngest  one — a  little  girl — upon  his  knee, 
and  parted  the  long  curls  of  its  hair.  Though  its 
cheeks  were  pale  and  thin,  and  its  eyes  swollen  with 
weeping,  there  was  a  regularity  and  softness  in  the 
features,  which  reminded  him  of  his  sister’s  infancy. 
‘‘This  is  the  little  niece  I  have  never  seen,”  he  said, 
patting  its  cheek  with  his  hand,  and  endeavouring  to 
hide  his  emotion.  The  other  two  children  left  their 
play,  and  stepped  timidly  towards  their  uncle.  He 
spake  kindly  to  each,  framing  his  words  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  relieve  his  sister  from  the  painful  feel¬ 
ings  which  his  unexpected  visit  had  occasioned. 

During  this  time  he  had  not  inquired  about  Sand- 
ford  ;  but  the  afternoon  had  not  passed  away  before 
that  individual  appeared.  He  was  in  a  beastly  state 
of  intoxication.  Bursting  into  the  room,  he  uttered 
a  volley  of  oaths,  and  swore  vengance  on  his  wife. 
The  youngest  child  ran  to  its  mother,  and  the  others, 
hid  themselves  behind  their  uncle.  The  drunken 
man,  without  heeding  the  stranger,  advanced  directly 
towards  his  wife,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm,  had 
already  raised  his  hand  to  strike  her,  when  her  brother 
sprang  between  them.  The  drunken  man,  startled 
by  a  movement  so  unexpected,  let  go  his  hold,  and 
reeled  backward  against  the  wall.  After  several 
efforts  to  regain  his  balance  he  succeeded,  and  again 
advancing,  muttered  with  an  oath- — 

“  Who  are  you  ?” 

“  I  am  one,  that  wishes  you  to  sit  down  and  be 
quiet,”  Warren  answered. 

“  Do  you  want  to  fight?”  continued  Sandford,  with 


CAROLINE  AFTER  HER  HARRIAGE. 


(363) 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 


365 


that  simple  expression  of  countenance  peculiar  to  the 
intoxicated. 

“  I  want  you  to  sit  down,”  said  the  other. 

“  I’ll  not  sit  down,”  shouted  Sandford.  “  Ain’t  this 
my  house  ? — I  can  take  care  of  myself  without  getting; 
drunk.”  He  again  reeled  forward. 

“  Let  me  lead  you  to  that  chair,”  Warren  said, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  drunkard’s  arm. 

“  Let  go  of  me !”  growled  Sandford.  “  I  ain’t 
drunk — not  I,  she’s  my  wife,  I  tell  you  that.  I’ll 
blow  up  the  house,”  he  continued  with  a  loud  oath. 
“I’ll  tear  you  limb  from  limb;  all  the  men  in  Illinois 
can’t  hinder  me.”  As  he  spoke,  he  shook  off  War¬ 
ren’s  hand,  and  endeavoured  to  strike  at  his  wife ;  but 
the  effort  destroyed  his  equilibrium  and  he  came 
down  heavily  upon  the  floor.  After  several  ineffect¬ 
ual  efforts  to  rise,  he  in  a  short  time  fell  asleep. 

“  This  is  dreadful,  Caroline  !”  said  the  brother  after 
a  pause.  She  looked  at  him  without  speaking. 

“  And  you  have  suffered  so  long,  without  letting  us 
know.”  he  added. 

“  O,  brother,  how  could  I  tell  you  of  it?”  she  ex¬ 
claimed,  weeping.  “  It  is  my  own  fault — I  feel  that 
I  deserve  it  all.  I  almost  wish  you  had  not  come  to 
see  what  you  have  seen.  Yet  if  you  but  knew  the 
misery,  the  days  of  sorrow  and  sickness  I  have  en¬ 
dured,  you  might  pity  me.  And  these  my  little  ones, 
it  is  they  alone  for  whom  I  have  wished  to  live.” 

“  But  you  will  not  remain  here  to  suffer.” 

“  What  else  can  I  do,  brother — wherever  I  go,  he 
will  follow  me.” 


366 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 


“  You  must  go  with  me  to  Connecticut,”  replied 
Warren — “both  you  and  the  children.” 

His  sister  shook  her  head.  “  I  could  not  endure 
father’s  look,”  she  said  mournfully. 

“  All  is  forgotten,  Caroline,”  said  her  brother,  ten¬ 
derly. 

“  It  cannot  be  !”  she  replied,  in  the  same  sad  tone. 
“  He  could  not  forget  how  I  disobeyed  him.  No,  no, 
brother — let  me  remain  and  die  here.  I  have  not 
many  days  to  linger,”  she  added,  looking  earnestly 
upon  him.  “  That  disease,  which  cannot  be  cured, 
has  fastened  upon  me ;  but  oh  !  it  will  be  consoling 
even  in  death,  to  know  that  I  may  leave  these  little 
ones  to  your  care.  You  can  take  them  with  you, 
brother — they  have  no  remembrance  of  disobedience 
and  shame,  to  weigh  down  the  gloomy  hours  of  exist¬ 
ence.  Father,  too,  will  be  glad  to  see  them,  and  per¬ 
haps,  when  he  hears  them  laughing  round  him,  will 
think  sometimes  of  their  poor  mother.” 

Warren  did  not  reply.  There  was  a  long  pause, 
broken  only  by  the  hard  breathings  of  the  drunken 
man,  and  the  sobbings  of  his  wife.  The  evening 
gradually  wore  away,  and  one  after  another  the  chil¬ 
dren  came  to  their  mother,  crying  for  bread.  Their 
uncle  took  some  food  from  his  portmanteau,  and 
spread  it  before  them.  They  clapped  their  hands, 
and  danced  in  childish  joy,  at  sight  of  the  full  meal. 

“Eat,  sister,”  said  Warren,  as  he  seated  himself 
beside  her. 

She  raised  a  morsel  to  her  lips,  but  again  laid  it 
upon  the  table.  He  urged  her,  but  in  vain.  She  was 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE.  367 

sick  at  heart.  There  was  something  touching  in 
that  scene,  of  the  brother,  hundreds  of  miles  from 
home,  feeding,  with  the  bread  of  charity,  the  little 
ones  of  her  who,  in  early  days,  had  been  the 
pride  and  hope  of  the  family.  It  seemed  a  silent, 
but  powerful  lecture  on  the  consequences  of  in¬ 
temperance. 

For  several  weeks  previous  to  Warren’s  arrival  in 
the  village,  Sandford  had  been  on  one  of  those  ruinous 
frolics,  technically  known  as  batters.  After  drinking 
to  excess  in  the  tavern,  he  would  lie  under  sheds  or 
hedges  during  the  greater  part  of  the  day,  and  return 
in  the  evening  to  abuse  his  wife.  Under  such  treat¬ 
ment,  his  constitution,  already  shattered,  was  fast 
sinking;  and  for  some  days  past,  symptoms  of  the 
mania  began  to  appear  in  his  conduct.  On  the  night 
of  which  we  have  spoken,  as  Warren  and  his  sister 
were  conversing  with  each  other,  the  drunken  man 
suddenly  awoke  under  a  violent  paroxysm  of  this 
horrible  disease.  Fortunately  for  the  wife  and  her 
brother,  two  or  three  hunters  belonging  to  the  village, 
who  knew  Sandford,  happened  to  be  passing  along, 
from  a  night  excursion  after  deer.  Hearing  the 
noise,  and  fearing  that  he  was  abusing  Mrs.  Sand¬ 
ford  or  the  children,  they  pushed  open  the  door,  and 
entered.  Glad  of  such  opportune  assistance,  Warren 
bade  them  welcome,  stating,  in  a  few  words,  his  own 
position.  With  much  difficulty  the  drunken  man 
was  secured,  and  the  hunters,  after  taking  some  food 
from  their  hunting-sacks,  agreed  to  remain  until  , 


morning. 


368 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 

All  the  remedies  applied  to  arrest  the  progress  of 
Sandford’s  disorder  were  vain.  He  lingered  in  a 
fearful  condition  for  five  days,  and  died  a  raving 
maniac. 

The  last  tie  which  held  Mrs.  Sandford  to  her  emi¬ 
grant  home  was  now  broken ;  for,  although  she  had 
not  confessed  it,  yet  her  brother  perceived  that  it  was 
partly  on  account  of  her  husband  that  she  had  been 
so  decided  in  her  refusal  to  return  to  Connecticut. 
He,  therefore,  renewed  his  solicitations  with  increased 
earnestness,  and,  at  length,  with  success.  The  sum¬ 
mer  was  far  advanced  ;  yet,  unwilling  to  remain  until 
spring,  Warren  resolved  on  setting  out  immediately, 
even  at  the  risk  of  incurring  the  fevers  prevalent  on 
the  western  waters  during  the  fall  season.  Hence,  in 
'a  few  days  after  Sandford’s  death,  he  was  descending 
the  Illinois,  with  his  sister  and  her  three  children, 
bound  for  their  distant  home.  The  voyage  was  a  dis¬ 
astrous  one.  Warren,  himself,  was  attacked  by  fever 
and  ague ;  and,  on  arriving  at  Pittsburgh,  the  oldest 
child  suddenly  became  ill  and  died.  Yet  the  mother, 
frail  and  sickly  as  she  was,  bore  up,  with  that 
firmness  which  woman  frequently  displays  in  trials 
of  the  most  agonizing  nature.  It  was  the  middle 
of  November  before  the  little  party  arrived  at 
Hartford. 

With  what  feelings  did  the  child  of  poverty — the 
widow,  whose  husband  lay  in  a  drunkard’s  grave — 
stand  before  that  mansion,  in  whose  halls,  when  a 
girl,  her  days  had  been  spent  in  affluence.  Her  bro¬ 
ther  was  beside  her.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  a  servant 


369 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 

admitted  them.  Old  Mr.  Warren  heard  his  son’s 
voice,  and  rushed  into  the  hall.  There  was  a  clasp¬ 
ing  of  the  hands  in  joyful  surprise,  a  wild  shriek,  and 
the  daughter  fell  into  her  father’s  arms.  The  chil 
dren  screamed  in  terror,  and  clung  to  their  uncle  ; 
while  tears,  which  manhood  could  not  restrain,  started 
to  his  eyes. 

“  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !”  said  the  old  man,  at 
last,  “  I  have  seen  my  daughter  once  more.” 

“  Can  you,  forgive  me,  father  ?”  she  murmured. 

He  pressed  her  to  his  bosom  without  speaking ;  but 
in  his  countenance,  beaming  with  joy,  she  read 
oblivion  of  the  past. 

“And  where  is  mother?”  inquired  .the  younger 
Warren.  The  old  man  was  silent. 

Caroline  gazed  long  in  his  face. 

“  I  see  it !”  she  exclaimed,  as  a  wild  burst  of  grief 
came  to  her  relief.  “  Oh,  my  poor  mother !  I  thought 
to  get  her  pardon,  and  to  die  in  peace.  It  is  I  who 
have  shortened  her  days,  and  brought  her  sorrowing 
to  the  grave.  But  I  shall  soon  follow  her — you  will 
not  have  me  long,  father,  to  imbitter  your  age  by  re¬ 
membrances  of  the  past.  Oh.  it  will  be  sweet  to  die, 
feeling  that  we  are  reconciled  !” 

“Caroline,”  said  the  old  man,  “what  words  are 
these  ?”  but  the  excitement  was  too  much  for  his  de¬ 
clining  strength.  He  sunk  with  her  exhausted  upon 
a  sofa. 

Restored  to  the  home  of  her  childhood,  to  her  fa¬ 
ther’s  blessing,  and  her  brother’s  care,  with  ease  and 
luxury  around  her,  and  the  past  consigned  to  appa- 


370 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 

rent  oblivion,  would  not  the  mother  regain  her  smile, 
and  be  happy  in  the  society  of  her  friends  and  her 
children  ?  Caroline  appeared  happy.  She  strove  to 
relieve  the  mind  of  her  father  from  care,  and  smiled 
when,  with  almost  childish  fondness,  he  would  say 
that  she  was  once  more  his  own  girl.  But  in  secret — 
when  the  heart  and  the  countenance  did  not  betray 
each  other — there  was  the  fast  flowing  tear,  the  prayer, 
not  for  joy,  but  for  that  which  strong  men  dread  to 
contemplate,  and  the  cough  which  announced  that 
the  prayer  would  be  answered.  We  may  not  wonder, 
then,  that  the  effort  to  appear  happy  was  too  much 
for  her.  She  wasted  away  day  by  day,  until  the  eyes 
of  partial  friends  could  no  longer  be  blind  to  the  ra¬ 
vages  of  disease.  Then  every  remedy  which  medical 
skill  could  devise  was  applied  ;  amusements  procured, 
and  varied,  and  change  of  climate  proposed.  They 
were  vain.  Spring  came,  and  while  the  vegetable 
world  was  springing  into  renewed  life,  while  the  fields 
were  clothing  themselves  in  a  grassy  carpet,  and  beds 
of  flowers ;  while  youth  sought  the  society  of  kindred 
youth,  without  whose  smile  existence  was  sad  and 
languid — she  who  had  once  smiled  brightest  amid 
these  scenes,  lay  in  her  chamber,  asleep.  The  soft 
wind  came  through  the  open  window’,  and  curled,  at 
times,  the  locks  of  her  hair.  It  did  not  disturb  her. 
An  old  man,  whose  few  hairs  glittered  over  his 
withered  brow,  like  moonbeams  around  a  ruined 
pile,  held  her  hand,  and  raising  his  own  towards  hea¬ 
ven,  exclaimed,  “  Oh,  God  !  this  is  not  my  daughter !” 

She  neither  felt  his  touch,  nor  heard  his  voice. 


371 


THE  EMIGRANT’S  WIFE. 

Two  children  stood  beside  her  couch,  but  she  seemed 
unmoved,  even  though  they  called  ceaselessly  for  their 
mother.  She  slumbered  too  heavily  to  be  disturbed 
by  aught  like  these.  Hers  was  the  sleep  of  death. 

She  was  buried  in  the  little  churchyard,  and  over 
her  was  placed  a  simple  stone — Sacred  to  the 
Memory  of  the  Emigrant’s  Wife. 


25 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


Bt  Amerei* 


One  hot  afternoon  two  gentlemen  were  riding  to¬ 
gether  near  the  village  of  R - in  one  of  the  Mid¬ 

dle  States.  When  they  reached  a  cross-road  which 
led  directly  through  the  village,  the  one  who  held  the 
reins,  stopped  the  horse,  and  turning  to  the  other 
said : — 

“  Ought  we  not  to  do  something  in  this  village  ?” 

“ We  cannot,”  said  the  other.  “We  must  reach 
Lancaster  before  the  close  of  the  week,  and  you  know 
how  much  we  have  to  do  after  that.  Don’t  let  us 
pause,  unless  it  be  impossible  to  avoid  it.” 

“  We  can  easily  make  up  one  day’s  loss,”  said  the 
first  speaker.  “  Besides  there  is  misery  to  relieve  as 
well  in  a  village  as  in  a  city.  Yonder  I  see  a  tavern 
sign  swinging ;  our  opponents,  you  see,  have  already 
obtained  a  foothold,  and  ought  we  not  to  make  an 
effort  to  dispossess  them?” 

“  But  how  shall  we  make  up  the  loss  of  time  ?” 

“  Stay  here  to  tiight  and  to  morrow ;  hold  our  meet¬ 
ing  to  morrow  night ;  and  then  travel  until  morning, 

(372) 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


373 


We  shall  thus  gain  at  least  half  a  day.  As  to  the  re¬ 
mainder,  leave  it  to  me.” 

“  Well,  drive  up  the  road.”  The  two  men  were 
soon  in  the  village. 

On  the  following  day  it  was  announced  that  a 
Temperance  meeting  would  be  held  that  evening,  in 
an  old  building,  which  had  last  been  used  as  a  school- 
house.  The  church  could  not  be  obtained. 

When  the  cause  of  Temperance  first  began  to  ex¬ 
cite  public  attention,  it  is  well  known  that  such  an 
announcement  would  throw  the  most  retired  country 

village  into  an  uproar.  Such  was  the  case  at  R - . 

Some,  who  did  not  clearly  understand  what  Tempe¬ 
rance  was,  clamoured  against  the  attempt  to  take 
away  their  liberty.  Others,  with  appetites  whet¬ 
ted  by  opposition,  declared  that  they  would  rather 
resign  both  meat  and  clothing,  than  resign  their  morn¬ 
ing  potations  of  gin  and  hard  cider.  A  few,  zealous 
in  the  cause  of  education,  denounced  the  authorities 
which  had  granted  the  school-house  to  the  Tempe¬ 
rance  men,  and  declared  it  an  insult  to  an  enlight¬ 
ened  population.  Some  were  for  excluding  the 
strangers  from  the  village  ;  and  despairing  to  accom¬ 
plish  the  act  by  force  of  argument,  they  talked  vehe¬ 
mently  of  a  right  inherited  from  their  ancestors  of 

keeping  the  moral  atmosphere  of  R - pure,  if  not 

by  fair  means  by  foul. 

Such  were  a  few  of  the  speculations  and  opinions 
that  disturbed  this  little  village,  during  the  day  which 
preceded  the  holding  of  the  Temperance  meeting. 
In  spite  of  them  the  school-house  was  crowded ;  for 


374 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


curiosity,  that  busy  principle,  is  pre-eminently  busy 
among  the  inhabitants  of  a  village.  Some  had  come 
merely  to  see  the  lecturers;  some  to  excite  distur¬ 
bance  ;  a  few,  well  versed  in  village  lore,  to  advocate 
the  cause  of  cider  drinking;  and  some,  with  a  de¬ 
termination  to  disgorge  their  loaded  pockets  of  stones, 
corn-cobs,  chicken-bones  and  other  missiles — all  of 
course  designed  for  the  heads  of  the  lecturers.  For 
half  an  hour,  while  the  audience  collected,  a  din, 
like  that  of  any  Babel,  of  all  languages  and  meanings, 
arose  from  the  motley  audience,  baffling  the  efforts  of 
the  self-constituted  committee  of  order,  and  threatening 
to  demolish  the  crazy  building,  whose  joists  and  walls 
were  already  cracking.  Many  of  the  peacefully  dis¬ 
posed  retired ;  leaving  a  fair  field  of  operations  to 
those  who  had  taken  the  management  of  the  prelude 
into  their  own  hands. 

Such  were  the  discouraging  prospects,  under  which 
the  first  speaker  mounted  the  decayed  platform  where 
the  teacher’s  desk  formerly  stood.  He  was  a  tall, 
stout  man,  with  the  brow  and  eye  of  an  orator,  and 
an  attitude  to  awe  a  mob.  Placing  his  hands  behind 
him,  he  looked  calmly  upon  his  audience,  until  as  if 
by  magic,  a  deep  silence  pervaded  every  part  of  the 
room.  Then,  with  a  voice  which  had  been  modified 
to  winning  softness  by  experience  in  many  a  similar 
scene,  he  began — 

“  My  friends,  permit  me  to  relate  to  you  a  true 
story.”  They  listened.  He  told  of  one  who  had 
been  the  hope  of  the  household,  in  which  she  lived. 
He  described  her,  young,  innocent,  happy,  beloved 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


375 


by  her  friends,  sought  eagerly  by  men  of  high  stand¬ 
ing  in  society — of  her  marriage  with  one  who  seemed 
worthy  of  her,  and  the  merry  pledges  which  accom¬ 
panied  the  weddmg  scene — of  a  few  years  of  happi¬ 
ness — and  then  of  the  crushing  reaction  which  made 
her  a  drunkard’s  wife,  and  hurried  her  heart-broken 
to  the  grave  Then  while  his  audience  hung  breath¬ 
less  upon  his  words,  he  poured  forth  in  rapid  and 
brilliant  arguments  his  reasons  against  the  use  of 
alcoholic  drinks.  His  hearers  maintained  profound 
silence  and  seemed  pondering  over  the  words  which 
fell  from  his  lips.  Before  he  ceased  a  visible  change 
was  observed  in  the  aspect  of  all  in  the  room. 

The  other  speaker  arose.  He  had  not  the  com¬ 
manding  figure  6f  his  friend,  but  his  voice  was  deep 
and  powerful,  and  went  directly  to  the  hea.t.  The 
first  speaker  had  pointed  to  the  evil  of  intemperance — 
he  showed  the  remedy.  He  spoke  of  the  manly 
struggle  with  temptation,  of  the  fallen  reclaimed,  of 
the  joy  over  a  prodigal,  who,  having  been  lost,  was 
found.  He  also  related  anecdotes;  but  they  were 
soothing  and  encouraging.  Tears  of  ecstatic  joy  flowed 
from  many  eyes  while  he  spoke. 

Lectures  like  these  had  never  been  heard  in  R - . 

Men,  half  ruined  by  intoxication,  shuddered  as  they 
saw  their  condition,  for  the  first  time,  in  its  true  light. 
Mothers,  who  had  given  small  drams  of  cider  or  rum 
to  their  children,  silently  vowed  to  abandon,  altoge¬ 
ther,  so  dangerous  a  practice  ;  young  men  examined 
their  habits,  wives  wept  in  bitter  grief  as  they  recog¬ 
nized,  in  the  pictures  delineated,  traces  of  their  own 


376 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


sad  experience.  Those  who  had  come  to  excite  dis 
turbance  were  orderly ;  those  who  had  boasted  of 
their  skill  in  advocating  cider  drinking,  sat  speech 
less.  People  who  had  grown  gray  amid  the  ravages 
of  intemperance,  wondered  why,  for  the  first  time, 
they  began  to  consider  it  a  great  evil. 

“  And  now,’ 7  exclaimed  the  second  speaker,  when 
he  had  finished  his  lecture,  “  who  wfill  sign  the  tee¬ 
total  pledge  ?” 

“  1  will,7’  said  a  poor  old  woman,  who  sat  on  a 
broken  box  close  to  the  platform.  She  arose,  and 
with  much  difficulty,  hobbled  towards  the  lecturer. 
“  I  was  once  as  young,  and  rich,  and  happy  as  the 
poor  girl  that  the  other  gentleman  told  about.  But 
rum  made  me  poor.  Thank  heaven,' I  can  still  write 
my  name  to  the  temperance  pledge  !” 

“  And  I  will  sign  it,77  said  a  miserable-looking  man, 
in  front  of  the  orators.  “  Sir,77  he  said  to  the  second 
speaker,  “  I  came  here  to  throw  stones  at  you  !  Here 
they  are  !77 — he  drew  a  handful  of  stones  from  his 
pocket — “  I  did  not  believe  you  would  tell  the  truth. 
Now,  I  think  differently.  Every  word  you  say  is  true. 
I  was  a  fool  that  I  did  not  see  it  before.  My  father 
taught  me  to  drink,  for  he  gave  me  rum,  sweetened 
with  sugar,  when  I  was  a  little  boy.  I  could  curse 
him,  but  I  will  not  He  is  already  cursed.  Once  I 
was  a  merchant.  Look  at  me  now !  But  I’ll  sign 
the  pledge,  and  keep  it,  too.77 

“  So  will  I,”  exclaimed  a  bloated  old  man,  of  some 
twelve  stone  in  weight,  as  he  rose  suddenly  from 
among  the  audience.  A  great  sensation  was  visible. 


I 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE.  377 

# 

“  There’s  Squire  Dawson  !  Squire  Dawson’s  going 
to  sign!”  was  whispered  in  every  part  of  the  room. 
The  squire  hobbled  up  the  aisle  with  a  gait  which 
evinced  irresistible  symptoms  of  gout;  and,  seizing 
the  pen,  wrote  his  name  with  a  trembling  hand.  Then 
straightening  himself  as  well  as  he  could,  he  faced 
the  lecturers,  and  exclaimed — 

“  Every  word  you  have  said  is  true.  Rum  has 
ruined  me,  and  it  ruined  my  poor  boy,  Charles,  who 
lies  in  yonder  churchyard.  I  have  done  ten  times 
more  mischief  by  drinking  rum,  than  I  have  corrected 
by  enforcing  the  law.” 

By  this  time  another  man  had  pressed  up  towards 
the  platform.  He  was  not  more  than  twenty-eight 
years  old  ;  but  indulgence  in  liquor  and  other  abuses 
had  whitened  his  hair,  and  bent  his  shoulders  as 
though  by  the  weight  of  years.  His  face  evinced 
much  intelligence,  and  there  was  in  his  features  a 
mysterious  sadness,  which  at  once  arrested  the  be- 
.  holder’s  attention.  Soon  as  the  squire  had  finished 
speaking,  this  young  man  stooped  down  and  enrolled 
his  name  on  the  pledge. 

“  Mary  will  be  glad  of  it,  in  heaven !”  exclaimed 
the  squire,  grasping  his  friend’s  hand. 

“  I  believe  she  will,”  said  the  other,  solemnly. 

“  Gentlemen,”  said  the  squire  to  the  lecturers,  in  a 
voice  which  long  habit  had  rendered  authoritative, 
“  this  young  man  is  my  nephew.  He  became  an  orphan 
at  the  age  of  thirteen,  since  which  time  he  has  lived 
under  my  roof.  He  studied  law  in  Philadelphia,  and, 
for  a  while,  he  seemed  on  the  high  road  to  success. 


378 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


Rum  ruined  every  thing;  he  and  I  were  alike  in 
that  respect.  He  loved  a  sweet  creature  whom  we 
called  Mary — the  daughter  of  a  physician  who  once 
lived  in  this  village.  Rum  killed  him,  too,  poor  fel¬ 
low.  Mary  was  proud  to  be  the  chosen  one  of  my 
nephew.  It  was  a  sad  parting  when  he  went  to  study 
at  Philadelphia — she  could  scarcely  give  him  up. 
Every  day,  as  we  found  out  afterwards,  she  wrote 
something  about  him  in  a  small  journal,  and  counted 
the  time  which  he  had  to  stay.  At  last,  it  slowly 
moved  round.  He  returned  ;  but  he  was  altered — I 
need  not  tell  you  how.  Poor  Mary  !  it  broke  her 
heart !  We  buried  her  in  the  churchyard,  beside  my 
boy,  Charles.  There  have  been  sad  times  since  then, 
for  both  of  us.” 

The  two  men  sat  down,  amid  silence  interrupted 
only  by  sobs.  Others  came  forward  to  sign  the 
pledge ;  so  that  it  was  nearly  eleven  o’clock  before 
the  meeting  adjourned.  Forty-two  names  had  been 
enrolled  in  the  temperance  cause  ! 

The  two  men  gazed  upon  each  other  in  wonder  and 
thankfulness.  What  a  work  had  been  done  in  the 
short  space  of  one  evening  ! 

“  Do  you  still  regret,”  said  one  of  them  to  his  com¬ 
panion,  “  that  we  have  been  detained  for  a  day  ?” 

“  My  friend,”  was  the  reply,  “  would  that  we 
might  lose  every  day  in  this  manner.” 

Nor  did  the  good  effects  of  that  one  effort  stop 
after  those  with  whom  it  had  originated  left  the  vil¬ 
lage.  On  the  following  day,  several  men  were  gather¬ 
ing  in  their  harvest  in  the  fields  near  the  village 


(379) 


THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 


381 


They  had  been  at  the  meeting  of  the  previous  even¬ 
ing,  and  the  names  of  two  ot  three  of  them  were  en¬ 
rolled  upon  the  pledge.  When  the  hour  for  dinner 
arrived,  they  collected  under  a  large  tree,  and  while 
eating,  began  to  converse  upon  the  subject  of  the 
lectures. 

“  Do  you  think  old  Squire  Dawson  will  keep  the 
pledge  ?”  asked  one. 

“  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  John.  I  never  saw  the  old 
man  so  resolute  in  any  undertaking  before.  But  did 
you  see  Briggs,  the  tavern-keeper?” 

“  No.  Was  he  there  ?” 

“  Yes.  Every  body  thinks  he  came  to  make  dis¬ 
turbance.  He  missed  it,  though.  While  the  first  man 
was  lecturing,  he  appeared  very  uneasy,  shuffling 
about  from  side  to  side,  as  if  he  thought  all  of  us  were 
watching  him;  but  soon  as  he  saw  the  squire  get 
up,  he  pushed  for  the  door  in  double  quick  time.  He 
knows  the  squire  could  tell  a  tale  about  him,  if  he 
chose.” 

“  I  heard  that  his  tavern  has  not  been  opened  this 
morning,”  said  a  man,  named  Greene. 

“  Pity  that  it  ever  should,”  answered  another. 
“  But  who  would  think  that  so  much  could  be  said  in 
favour  of  temperance  ?” 

“  Or  so  much  done  ?” 

“  And  why  cannot  more  be  done  ?”  exclaimed  the 
one  they  had  called  John.  “  Why  may  we  not  form 
a  small  temperance  society,  and  have  rules  and  regu¬ 
lar  meetings,  like  other  societies,  and  invite  persons 


i 


f 


I 


382  THE  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 

to  lecture  for  us,  and  endeavour  to  prevent  some  in 
this  village  from  becoming  drunkards  ?” 

“  That  is  an  excellent  thought,”  replied  Greene. 

“Suppose  we  give  notice  to  our  friends  that  a 
meeting  to  form  the  society  will  be  held  to-morrow 
night,  at  the  school-house  ?” 

“Agreed  !”  they  all  exclaimed. 

One  of  them,  who  had  not  signed  the  pledge  on  the 
previous  evening,  drew  something  from  his  basket. 

“  I  will  begin,”  said  he,  “  by  throwing  this  rum 
bottle,  which  has  spoiled  many  a  fine  lunch,  into  the 
creek  there.”  He  did  so,  with  the  approbation  of  his 
companions. 

The  meeting  was  held  on  the  following  evening. 
A  large  society  was  formed  under  the  most  promising 
circumstances,  and  its  members  went  forth  already 
armed  with  an  influence  powerful  for  good.  Such 
w'ere  the  immediate  effects  of  the  first  temperance 

lecture  in  the  village  of  R - .  “  A  word  spoken  in 

season,  how  good  it  is !” 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 


By  Henry  Travers. 


“  I’m  as  dry  as  a  fish,  Harry,”  said  an  acquaintance 
who  was  visiting  a  young  man  named  Marshall. 
“  Don’t  you  keep  any  thing  good  to  drink  here?” 

“Yes;  we’ve  a  pump  full  of  the  purest  water,”  was 
r3plied. 


(383) 


384  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 


“  Pah !  water !”  and  the  acquaintance  manifested 
disgust. 

“  There  is  not  a  sweeter  nor  better  beverage  in  the 
world,  friend  Lloyd, 

‘Water  for  me,  bright  water  for  me.”* 


And  he  sung  the  line  merrily. 

“  And  have  you  become  a  cold  water  man  ?”  said 
Lloyd,  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

f‘Yes,”  replied  Marshall,  “Pm  for  pure,  cold 
wTater.” 

“Well,  I’m  sorry  for  you,”  said  Lloyd.  “Right 
down  sorry  for  you  !  That’s  all  I  can  say.  Never 
catch  me  cutting  all  the  nice  little  comforts  of  life — 
few  enough  there  are  at  best.  I  go  in  for  enjoying 
myself” 

“  So  do  I ;  and  I  never  find  so  much  enjoyment  as 
when  my  mind  is  clear.” 

“  A  good  glass  of  whisky  toddy  makes  the  mind  as 
clear  as  a  bell,”  said  Lloyd. 

“  It  never  was  so  in  my  case.” 

“  It’s  always  so  in  mine.  To  night  I’m  as  dull  as 
a  deacon.” 

“  I  hav’n't  found  you  so.” 

“  I  feel  so,  then.” 

“  Will  you  have  a  glass  of  water?,” 

“  No.”  Lloyd  shook  his  head  emphatically. 

“  A  cup  of  coffee,  then  ?” 

“  No — no.” 

And  the  acquaintance  made  a  motion  to  rise  from 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  385 


the  table  at  which  he  had  been  playing  a  game  of 
chess  with  Marshall. 

“  Don’t  go  yet.  Let’s  have  another  game,”  said  the 
latter. 

“  Thank  yon,  I’ve  staid  longer  now  than  I  intended ; 
I’ll  call  in  again  some  other  evening.” 

o  o 

“  I  wish  you’d  stay.”  urged  Marshall. 

But  Lloyd  could  find  enjoyment  here  no  longer. 
He  wanted  something  to  bring  up  his  spirits.  So  he 
left  the  pleasant  parlour  and  companionship  of  his 
friend,  to  enjoy  himself  in  a  bar-room  where  the  air 
was  loaded  to  oppression  with  segar  smoke  and  the 
sickly  fumes  of  liquor.  Some  men  have  strange  ways 
of  enjoying  themselves. 

Marshall  had  a  pleasant  horfte  in  which  was  a 
pleasant  wife  and  a  sweet  child.  He  had  once  tried 
to  find  pleasure  in  idle  company,  tavern  lounging, 
and  brandy  drinking;  but  the  experience  of  a  few 
years  satisfied  him  that  he  had  somehow  or  other 
gotten  into  the  wrong  road ;  and  so  he  turned  off  into 
a  better  way.  He  quit  tippling,  applied  himself  more 
industriously  to  business  and  married  a  wife. 

“Never  catch  me  at  this  work,”  said  his  friend 
Lloyd,  when  the  last  mentioned  event  took  place. 
“  I  go  in  for  enjoying  myself.” 

“So  do  I,”  returned  Marshall.  “ I  never  was  so 
happy  in  my  life  as  I  am  now.” 

“  Wait  a  while,”  retorted  Lloyd,  smiling.  “  Wait 
a  while,  this  is  only  the  beginning.” 

“  You’d  better  follow  my  example,”  laughingly  an¬ 
swered  Marshall. 


38G  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

“  Never.  I  go  in  for  enjoying  myself.” 

And  so  the  two  men  went  on,  each  in  his  own  way, 
and  both  seeking  to  enjoy  themselves,  As  for  Lloyd, 
he,  somehow  or  other,  did  not  always  feel  as  happy  as 
he  could  wish.  Tarrying  long  over  the  bottle  at 
night,  generally  produced  morning  sensations  of  no 
very  agreeable  character ;  and  the  disarrangement  of 
business  matters,  and  the  marring  of  his  prospects  in 
life,  consequent  upon  wine  drinking  and  “good  fel¬ 
lowship,”  caused  him  often  to  be  afflicted  with  the 
blues. 

“  Oh  dear !  This  is  a  hard  world  for  a  man  to  get 
along  in!”  was  a  sentiment  which  often  fell  from 
his  lips.  Daily,  for  all  his  efforts  to  enjoy  himself, 
the  lines  on  the  countenance  of  Lloyd  evinced  more 
and  more  a  downward  tendency.  In  conversation  a 
light  would  go  over  it;  but  this  soon  faded,  and  he 
looked  as  dull  and  miserable  as  before.  Moreover  a 
perceptible  change  passed  upon  his  outer  man.  The 
neat,  tidy,  particular  Mr.  Lloyd,  grew  careless  of  his 
person.  Dress  became  an  indifferent  matter.  He 
found  no  longer  any  enjoyment  here.  All  his  plea¬ 
sure  hovered  around  the  cup  that  inebriates. 

Some  months  after  the  incident  mentioned  in  the 
beginning,  a  person  said  to  Marshall, 

“  Our  old  friend  Lloyd  is  in  trouble,  I  am  told.” 

“  Ah  !  What’s  the  matter?” 

“  The  sheriff  is  on  him.” 

“  Indeed  !  I’m  sorry  for  that.  How  did  it  hap- 
pen?”  _ 

“  He  likes  to  enjoy  himself  too  well.” 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  387 

**  He’s  fond  of  company,  I  know,”  said  Marshall. 

“  And  fond  of  something  else.  He  drinks  like  a 
fish.” 

“If  he  only  drank  like  a  fish ,  it  would  be  better 
for  him.  A  fish  takes  nothing  but  pure  water,  and 
that  in  reasonable  quantities.” 

“  True  enough.  He  drinks  like  a  beast  then.” 

“  Don’t  slander  the  beast.  I  never  yet  saw  a  dumb 
animal  who  would  touch  brandy.” 

“  Nor  did  I.  Well,  I’ll  get  it  by  and  by.  He  drinks 
like  a  fool.” 

“  That’s  more  like  it.  Poor  fellow !  I’m  sorry 
for  him.  He  calls  all  this  enjoyment.  But,  where 
the  enjoyment  lies,  it  passes  my  wit  to  tell.  He  didn’t 
look  very  happy  the  last  time  I  saw  him.” 

“  Nor  is  he  very  happy  now.  Men  seek  out  many 
inventions  by  which  to  enjoy  themselves,  and  this 
drinking  is  one  of  them.  But  the  whole  system  of 
tippling  is  a  miserable  failure  from  beginning  to  end. 
I  never  saw  any  true  enjoyment  among  dram-drinkers 
even  while  the  stimulant  was  in  its  first  exhilaration. 
Afterwards  we  all  know  that,  4  it  biteth  like  a  ser¬ 
pent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder.’  ” 

“You  say,”  remarked  Mr.  Marshall,  “that  the 
sheriff  is  on  Lloyd  ?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Is  the  matter  serious  ?” 

“  I  believe  so.  The  debt  is  a  thousand  dollars,  and 
he  couldn’t  squeeze  this  much  from  his  business  with¬ 
out  squeezing  the  very  life  out  of  it.  I  guess  it’s  all 
over  with  him.” 


26 


388  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

“  I’m  sorry,  indeed.  Lloyd  has  some  good  traits  of 
character.” 

“  Yes ;  but  he  is  fast  drowning  them  out.” 

“  I  must  go  and  see  him.  Perhaps  I  can  suggest 
something  for  his  benefit,”  said  Marshall. 

“  If  you  would  suggest  sobriety  and  a  better  at¬ 
tention  to  business,  some  good  might  come  of  it 
Though  I  fear  me,  he  is  too  far  gone  to  hope  for  a 
favourable  change.” 

“  I  will  see  him  at  any  rate,”  returned  Marshall. 
“  Perhaps  I  can  do  him  some  good.  Men  in  trouble 
are  more  inclined  to  hearken  to  the  suggestion  of 

OO 

friends.” 

Prompted  by  his  kind  feelings,  Marshall  went 
immediately  to  Lloyd’s  place  of  business.  He  found 
no  one  there  but  a  boy.  Every  thing  looked  thrift¬ 
less  and  in  disorder. 

“Where  is  Mr.  Lloyd?”  he  inquired. 

“  Hasn’t  been  down  since  dinner,”  was  replied. 

“Do  you  expect  him  here?” 

“  No,  sir.” 

“Doesn’t  he  generally  come  down  in  the  after 
noon  ?” 

“  Not  often.” 

“  He  boards  at  the  1  Eagle,’  I  believe  ?” 

“  Yes,  sir.” 

“  Do  you  think  he  is  there  now  ?” 

“  I  can’t  tell,  sir.” 

Marshall  stood  and  reflected  for  a  little  while. 
Then  he  started  off,  and  bent  his  steps  towards  the 
Eagle  Hotel. 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  389 


“Is  Mr.  Lloyd  in  his  room?”  he  inquired  on 
arriving  at  the  house. 

“  I  believe  he  is.” 

“  What  is  the  number  ?” 

“  Room  thirty-nine,  third  floor.” 

“  Marshall  ascended  to  the  third  story,  and  ex¬ 
amined  the  numbers  until  he  came  to  the  one  he 
sought.  The  door  stood  ajar ;  without  knocking,  he 
pushed  it  a  little  open,  so  that  he  could  see  within. 
At  a  table,  upon  which  was  a  bottle  and  a  pitcher, 
sat  Lloyd,  trying  to  forget  his  troubles  and  find  en¬ 
joyment  in  drinking.  In  his  hand  was  a  glass,  half 
full  of  brandy,  which  he  was  holding  up  and  eyeing 
with  a  look  of  stupid,  half  drunken  interest,  as  if  he 
hoped  to  see  some  good  angel  arise  therefrom  and 
rebuke  the  unhappy  spirits,  by  which  he  was  pos¬ 
sessed. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  Marshall  stood  and  contem¬ 
plated  the  picture. 

“  And  this  is  enjoyment !”  said  he.  “  And  this  the 
man  who  enjoys  himself!  Heaven  keep  me  from 
such  enjoyment !” 

Then  he  pushed  the  door  wide  open  and  entered. 

“Marshall!”  exclaimed  Lloyd,  setting  down  his 
glass  quickly,  while  a  slight  flush  of  confusion  went 
over  his  face.  “  How  are  you  ?  This  is  an  unex¬ 
pected  visit.  Take  a  chair.” 

A  chair  was  offered,  which  Marshall  accepted. 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  inquiringly,  for 
some  moments. 


390  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

“I  heard  to  day,”  said  Marshall,  at  length,  “that 
you  were  in  trouble ;  is  it  so  ?” 

“  Oh,  dear!”  sighed  Lloyd.  “Trouble  !  I’ve  had 
nothing  else  for  the  last  six  months.  Every  thing  has 
gone  wrong  with  me — every  thing.” 

“  Ho  w  has  that  happened  ?” 

“  I’m  sure  I  don’t  know.  Luck  is  against  me,  I 
suppose.” 

“  Luck  ?” 

“  Yes.  Ill-luck  has  dogged  my  steps  for  months  ; 
and  now,  to  cap  the  climax  of  trouble,  I’ve  got  into 
the  sheriffs  hands.  He’ll  make  a  clean  sweep.” 

“  Who  has  sued  you  ?” 

“  Carpenter.” 

“  What’s  his  claim?” 

“A  thousand  dollars.” 

“  Can’t  you  hold  him  off  for  a  while  ?” 

“  I’ve  been  holding  him  off,  and  promising  for  a 
year.  Now,  he  says  he  wont  be  put  off  any  longer.” 

“  Is  there  any  prospect  of  your  paying  him  ?” 

“  If  business  were  not  so  dull,  and  times  so  hard,  I 
could  settle  his  claim  in  twelve  months.” 

“  I  don’t  find  business  dull,”  said  Marshall. 

“  I  do,  then.  It  has  been  a  perfect  drag  with  me 
for  the  last  six  months,  and  things  get  worse  and 
worse,  instead  of  better.” 

“  Perhaps  it’s  your  own  fault,”  suggested  Mar¬ 
shall. 

“  How  my  own  fault  ?” 

“  Do  you  attend  to  business  properly  ?” 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  391 


“  I  do  all  the  business  that  comes  to  me.  I  can’t 
make  business.” 

“  I  don’t  know  about  that.  I  rather  think  you  are 
too  fond  of  enjoying  yourself.” 

And  Marshall  smiled,  as  he  glanced  at  the  bottle 
and  half- filled  tumbler. 

“Oh!”  ejaculated  Lloyd,  indifferently;  “a  man 
must  have  some  enjoyment  in  this  life.” 

“  He  may  have  a  great  deal  if  he  will  only  seek  it 
in  the  right  way.  You,  it  strikes  me,  have  been  get¬ 
ting  into  the  wrong  way.” 

“  There’s  something  wrong,  without  doubt,”  said 
Lloyd,  gloomily. 

“Undoubtedly  there  is;  and  now,  suppose  you  go 
seriously  to  work  to  find  where  the  wrong  lies.” 

“  It’s  too  late.” 

“  Why  so  ?” 

“  The  mischief  is  all  done.” 

“  Perhaps  not.” 

“I’m  on  my  back,  without  the  power  to  rise. 
Carpenter  has  got  his  foot  on  my  neck — confound 
him!” 

“Perhaps  he  may  be  induced  to  take  it  off  ” 

“  Not  he.  He  thinks  it  his  last  chance  to  get  his 
money.” 

Marshall  sat  silent  for  some  time.  Then  he  said,  in 
a  serious  voice — 

“  You  will  bear  the  truth  from  a  friend  ?” 

“  Oh,  yes.  I  never  was  afraid  of  the  truth.” 

“  I  can  point  out  the  cause  of  your  present  diffi¬ 
culty,  and  likewise  the  remedy.” 


392  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

“  Can,  you,  indeed  ?  Then  I  wish,  from  my  heart, 
that  you  would  do  so.” 

“  There  is  the  cause  !”  And  Marshall  pointed  to  the 
bottle  of  brandy  that  stood  on  the  table. 

The  eye  of  Lloyd  followed  his  finger. 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?”  said  he. 

“  There  is  the  cause !”  repeated  Marshall ;  and  this 
time  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bottle. 

For  some  time  Lloyd  looked  his  friend  in  the  face ; 
then  his  eyes  drooped,  gradually,  and  fell  to  the  floor, 
while  a  heavy  sigh  came  up  from  his  bosom. 

“Do  you  wish  to  know  the  remedy?”  inquired 
Marshall. 

“  Of  course  I  do,”  said  Lloyd. 

“  There  it  is  !”  And,  with  the  words,  he  threw  the 
bottle  from  the  window. 

*  “  What  do  you  mean  ?”  exclaimed  Lloyd,  spring¬ 
ing  to  his  feet  in  surprise. 

“  I  have  shown  you  the  cause  and  the  remedy,” 
replied  the  friend  calmly.  “  Act  wisely  from  the 
knowledge  now  received,  and  all  may  yet  be  well.” 

“  It  is  too  late,”  said  Lloyd,  resuming  his  seat. 

“  No,  it  is  never  too  late,  while  life  remains,  to  re¬ 
trace  the  path  of  error.  Give  up  this  poison-bowl,  in 
which  you  have  too  long  drowned  your  reason.  Let 
your  best  thoughts  and  your  best  efforts  centre  in 
your  business,  and  my  word  for  it,  all  will  come  out 
right  in  the  end.” 

But  Lloyd  shook  his  head. 

“Believe  that  what  I  say  is  the  truth,”  urged 
Marshall. 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  393 

“  How  can  I?  Am  I  not  in  the  clutches  of  the  law, 
which  never  relinquishes  its  grip  while  breath  re¬ 
mains  in  the  body  ?” 

“  Promise  me,  on  your  word  of  honour  as  a  man,” 
said  Marshall,  “that  you  will  change  your  manners 
of  life,  and  I  will  undertake  to  manage  Carpenter.” 

“  How,  change  ?” 

“Give  up  drinking  and  idle  company,  and  put 
yourself  down  to  business.” 

“  What  is  life  worth,  if  a  man  is  to  have  no  enjoy¬ 
ment?” 

“  Not  much,  I  grant.  And  pray,  how  much  real 
enjoyment  have  you  had  ?” 

Lloyd  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

“  Enough  to  make  life  worth  going  over  again  ?” 

“  No,”  was  the  emphatic  answer. 

“  And  yet  there  is  a  great  deal  to  enjoy  in  thg 
world.  The  only  defect  in  your  case  is,  your  error  in 
the  adoption  of  means  to  the  end  in  view.  No  man 
ever  found  real  enjoyment  in  the  bottle.  And  why  ? 
It  is  not  there !  Its  effect  is  unnatural  excitement, 
which  is  followed  by  depression,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
consequent  evil  results  that  must  produce  their  mea¬ 
sure  of  unhappiness.  This  is  your  history,  and  the 
history  of  every  man  who  indulges  in  the  pleasures 
of  the  bottle.” 

“  Perhaps  you  are  right,”  said  Lloyd,  after  a  long 
silence.  He  sighed  heavily  as  he  spoke. 

“  Try  a  new  way  to  enjoyment;  this  has  failed.” 

“  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?” 

“  Give  up,  as  I  have  said,  drinking  and  idle  com 


394  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

pany,  and  all  will  be  well  with  you  again.  Promise 
this  amendment,  and  I  will  see  that  Carpenter  is  taken 
care  of.” 

“  I  promise,”  said  Lloyd,  after  another  long  period 
of  silence. 

“  On  your  word  as  a  gentleman?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  I  will  rely  upon  it.  Good  day.  To-morrow 
morning  I  will  see  you  at  your  store.” 

“Very  well.” 

And  the  two  men  parted. 

Carpenter,  by  whom  an  execution  had  been  issued 
against  Lloyd,  was  busy  in  his  store  when  Marshall 
came  in,  shortly  after  parting  with  his  friend  in 
trouble. 

“  I  want  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  Mr.  Lloyd,” 
said  the  latter, 

St 

The  smile  that  lit  up  the  countenance  of  Carpenter 
faded . 

“  Do  you  mean  to  sell  him  out  under  the  execution 
that  now  lies  against  his  property  ?” 

“  I  do,  certainly,”  replied  Carpenter. 

“  It  will  break  him  up,  root  and  branch.” 

“I  suppose  it  will;  but  I  can’t  help  that.  If  not 
pulled  up  by  the  root  now,  he  will  die  down  to  the 
root  in  a  little  while.  If  I  don’t  take  care  to  get  my 
own  now,  I  will  never  get  it;  for  he  is  going  to  the 
dogs  about  as  fast  as  a  man  ever  went.  Drink  is 
ruining  him.” 

“  I  am  aware  of  that.  But,  I  believe  he  will  re¬ 
form.” 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  395 


Carpenter  shook  his  head. 

“  If  he  should  really  reform,  and  attend  properly  to 
business,  how  long  would  you  give  him  to  pay  your 
debt,  provided  his  present  amount  of  property  were 
not  diminished,  and  your  security  in  it  were  kept 
good  ?” 

“Five  years,”  replied  Carpenter,  emphatically. 
“  But  I  have  no  faith  in  his  giving  up  the  bottle,  and 
attending  to  business.” 

“  Will  you  give  him  a  trial?” 

“  Certainly.  So  long  as  he  keeps  from  drinking, 
and  attends  to  his  business,  I  will  let  my  execution 
rest,  provided  no  one  else  attempts  to  come  in,  and 
get  precedence  over  me.” 

“  He  has  just  promised  me  that  he  will  entirely  re¬ 
form  his  life. 

“  Has  he  ?” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Then,  in  heaven’s  name,  let  him  have  every 
chance  for  his  life.  I  will  not  put  a  straw  in  his  way. 
I  saw  that  ruin  was  inevitable,  and  merely  stepped 
forward  to  save  my  own  from  the  wreck ;  but,  if  there 
is  any  hope  for  him,  I  will  not  interpose  an  obstacle.” 

On  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Marshall  called  early  at 
the  store  of  his  friend.  He  found  him  there,  and  busy 
at  work  in  restoring  things  to  order.  He  looked  pale 
and  anxious. 

“  I’ve  seen  Carpenter,”  said  Marshall,  in  a  cheer¬ 
ful  voice. 

“Have  you?”  Lloyd  did  not  smile.  There  was 
too  heavy  a  pressure  on  his  feelings. 


396  THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF. 

“  Yes.” 

“  Well,  what  does  he  say?” 

“Just  what  I  expected  him  to  say.  All  he  wants 
is  some  security  for  his  claim.” 

“  I  have  none  to  offer.” 

“  Oh,  yes  you  have — at  least,  all  that  he  desires. 
Give  up  your  brandy,  and  attend  to  business.” 

“Did  he  say  that?”  A  flush  came  to  the  face  of 
Lloyd.  There  was  something  indignant  in  his  tone 
of  voice. 

“He  said  what  all  your  friends  have  been  saying 
for  some  time  past,  that  drinking  and  idle  company 
were  ruining  you.  He  saw  that,  going  on  as  you 
were,  your  destruction  was  inevitable,  and  he  merely 
sought  to  save  himself.” 

Lloyd  felt  exceedingly  humbled  by  all  this. 

“I  am  not  a  common  drunkard,”  said  he. 

“  Yet  you  have  been  indulging  so  freely,”  replied 
Marshall,  “  that  hundreds  have  observed  it,  and  pre¬ 
dicted  your  ruin;  and,  what  is  more,  the  prediction 
has  been  well  nigh  fulfilled.” 

“  So  it  seems.” 

“  But  all  may  be  recovered.  Abide  by  your  pre¬ 
sent  resolution,  and  you  need  not  fear  for  the  future.” 

“Am  I  to  understand,  then,  that  Carpenter  will 
not  sell  under  this  execution  ?” 

“  Certainly.  The  measure  was  only  one  of  safety 
to  himself.  Go  on,  as  you  are,  and  pay  him  as  fast 
as  you  can.  He  says  that  if  the  whole  claim  is  re¬ 
covered  in  five  years,  he  will  be  content.  All  the 
security  he  asks  is  a  change  in  your  habits.” 


THE  MAN  WHO  ENJOYED  HIMSELF.  397 


“  I  will  not  disappoint  him,”  said  Lloyd,  emphati¬ 
cally. 

And  he  did  not. 

“  Five  years  have  passed  since  the  events  briefly 
described  took  place.  Lloyd  has  remained  true  to  his 
promise,  and  is  now  free  from  his  obligation  to  Car¬ 
penter.  Moreover,  he  has  taken  to  himself  a  wife, 
and  in  her  society  at  home,  where  there  is  a  swreet 
little  babe,  he  finds  a  far  higher  pleasure  than  he  ever 
knew  while  in  search  of  the  smiling  companion  in 
drinking-houses  and  among  idle  company.  As  for 
the  brandy  bottle,  it  has  never  visited  his  happy 
home,  and,  we  trust,  never  will. 

Do  you  want  to  find  the  man  who  enjoys  himself? 
There  he  is;  and  his  name  is  Hiram  Lloyd. 


TWELVE  O’CLOCK. 


By  Henby  Tbavebs. 


“  Oh  dear !”  muttered  Mr.  Guzzler,  as  he  stretched 
and  gaped  in  bed.  “ I  wonder  what  o’clock  it  is?” 

And  he  tried  to  rub  his  eyes  open. 

“  It  can’t  be  late.  Oh  dear !  O-o-o !  Ah — Oush !” 
And  he  gaped,  and  stretched,  and  shook  himself. 

“I  wonder  if  the  sun’s  up?”  Yes;  for  at  that 
moment,  a  few  rays  of  light  came  through  his  half¬ 
open  lids,  and  touched  the  retina  as  sharply  as  if 
pricked  with  needles.  “  Yes,  it’s  daylight,  but  I 
guess  the  breakfast  bell  hasn’t  rung  yet.” 

And  so  Mr.  Guzzler  smuggled  himself  down  un- 


* 


399 


TWELVE  O’CLOCK. 

der  the  bed-clothes  that  he  might  take  a  little  morn¬ 
ing  comfort.  As  he  did  so,  a  pain  shot  through  his 
forehead ;  and  he  became  aware  of  a  sensation  of 
vacancy  and  sickness  at  the  stomach,  accompanied  by 
ardent  thirst. 

At  twelve  o’clock,  Mr.  Guzzler  had  a  business  en¬ 
gagement  of  considerable  importance  to  himself.  In 
fact,  he  had  applied  to  a  person  for  the  loan  of  some 
money,  and  this  person  had  promised  to  call  at  his 
store  in  order  to  talk  the  matter  over  with  him  at 
twelve  o’clock. 

On  the  night  before,  Guzzler,  as  was  his  custom, 
indulged  himself  freely  in  drinking;  and,  in  order  to 
prolong  this  sensual  pleasure,  sat  up  until  all  his 
senses  were  drowned  by  inebriety.  Late  drinking 
usually  made  late  rising,  in  the  case  of  Mr.  Guzzler. 
He  was  hardly  ever  out  of  bed  before  nine  o’clock ; 
and  not  unfrequently  lay  until  the  clock  struck  ten ; 
when  he  would  creep  forth,  feeling  about  as  uncom¬ 
fortable  as  a  man  need  wish  to  feel. 

“  O-ow-ah !”  gasped  Guzzler  again.  On  the  pre¬ 
sent  occasion,  he  got  a  little  wider  awake,  and  once 
more  he  threw  his  arms  beyond  the  bed-clothes,  and 
stretched  them  to  their  widest  extent. 

Rat-tat-tat !  Some  one  knocked  at  the  door. 

“Well,  what’s  wanted?”  cried  Guzzler,  a  little 
impatiently. 

“It’s  twelve  o’clock,”  said  a  servant,  pushing  in 
his  head. 

“Twelve  o’clock !  Impossible  !”  returned  Guzzler 
as  he  rose  /up. 


400 


TWELVE  O’CLOCK. 


“  It’s  just  struck,  sir.” 

“  Not  twelve  ?” 

“  Yes,  sir.  It’s  just  struck  twelve.” 

“  Why  didn’t  you  call  me  sooner,  then,  you  rascal  V’ 

“I  did  call  you,  sir.  I  called  you  at  nine  o’clock.” 

“  You  must  have  called  in  a  whisper,  then.” 

“  No,  sir.  I  called  loud,  and  you  answered  me.” 

“Twelve  o’clock!  Too  bad!  too  bad!”  muttered 
Guzzler  as  he  turned  out  and  began  to  dress  himself. 

His  quick  movement  and  excitement  of  mind  sent 
the  blood  rushing  to  his  head,  where  the  pulses  beat 
along  his  temples  as  heavily  and  painfully  as  if  they 
were  the  strokes  of  a  hammer. 

“  Twelve  o’clock !  To  think  that  I  should  have 
overslept  myself  this  way  !  Too  bad  !  too  bad  !” 

Hurriedly  throwing  on  his  clothes,  and  half  per¬ 
forming  his  ablutions,  Guzzler  was  soon  ready  to 
leave  his  room.  There  was  no  time  to  wait  for  an 
extra  breakfast.  Off  for  his  store  he  went,  hoping 
that  the  individual  with  whom  he  had  made  the  en¬ 
gagement  might  still  be  there.  He  paused  on  the 
way  but  once,  and  that  was  to  get  a  .glass  of  brandy 
and  water. 

“Has  Mr.  R -  been  here?”  he  asked  of  his 

young  man,  on  entering  the  store. 

“  Yes,  sir,”  was  replied. 

“ Did  he  wait  any  time?” 

“Yes,  sir;  he  waited  for  half  an  hour.” 

“  Did  he  say  he  wrould  call  again  ?” 

“  No,  sir.” 

“  How  long  has  he  been  gone  ?” 


TWELVE  O’CLOCK. 


40. 


“  Only  a  few  minutes.” 

“Did  he  say  any  thing?” 

“  He  said  when  he  first  came  in,  that  he  had  some 
money  for  you.” 

“  Ah !  did  he  make  any  remark  when  he  went 
away  ?” 

“  He  told  me  to  tell  you  that  he  believed  he 
couldn’t  make  the  arrangement  he  was  talking  with 
you  about. ’k 

“  Couldn’t  make  it?” 

“That’s  what  he  said.” 

The  countenance  of  Mr.  Guzzler  fell.  He  stood 
for  some  moments  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor.  Then 
a  thought  went  through  his  mind,  and  looking  up,  he 
said  to  the  clerk, 

“  Did  Mr.  R - make  any  remark  about  my  not 

meeting  him  here  at  the  time  appointed  ?” 

“  He  asked  if  you  had  been  at  the  store,  this  morn- 

*  11 
mg. 

“  And  what  did  you  say  ?” 

“  I  told  him  that  you  had  not.” 

“Well  ?” 

“  He  then  wished  to  know  if  you  often  remained 
away  from  your  business  to  so  late  an  hour.” 

“Well?” 

“  4  Not  often,’  I  answered.” 

“  Not  often  !  Why  didn’t  you  say  no  ?” 

“  Because  I  couldn’t,  sir.” 

“  You  never  knew  me  to  be  away  from  my  store  as 
late  as  twelve  o’clock  before  this,  in  your  life.” 


I 


402 


TWELVE  O’CLOCK. 


“  Don’t  you  remember,  one  day  last  week  ?” 

“  No,  sir !  I  don’t  remember  any  thing  of  the 
kind,  nor  do  you,  either !” 

Mr.  Guzzler  spoke  angrily. 

“  A  pretty  way  to  speak  of  your  employer,  whose 
interest  you  are  bound  to  protect !  Had  you  no  sense 

nor  prudence  ?  And  what  else  did  Mr.  R - say  ? 

Had  he  any  more  questions  to  ask?” 

“  Yes,  sir.  He  asked  how  early  you  came,  as  a 
usual  thing,  to  the  store.” 

“  What  reply  did  you  make  to  that?” 

“I  told  him  the  truth,  sir,”  answered  the  clerk, 
whose  mind  was  a  little  fretted. 

“  Why  didn’t  you  evade  the  question  ?” 

“  Because  I  didn’t  wish  to  do  so.” 

“What  was  your  answer?” 

“  I  said  you  were  generally  here  by  ten  or  eleven 
o’clock.” 

“  Confound  you  !”  exclaimed  Guzzler,  losing,  still 
further,  his  temper. 

The  clerk  became  now  quite  as  angry  as  his  em¬ 
ployer.  Hurriedly  taking  up  his  hat,  he  left  the  store, 
and  did  not  again  return. 

Alone,  and  without  having  taken  a  morsel  of  food 
since  the  night  before,  Guzzler  was  now  in  no  very 
pleasant  condition  in  either  mind  or  body.  Moreover, 
he  had  two  notes  to  pay  in  bank,  and  no  money  on 
hand. 

About  half  on  hour  after  his  clerk  went  away,  a  lad 
brought  him  a  note,  the  contents  of  which  we  give. 


T W ELVE  O  CLOCK.  403 

“Mr.  Guzzler, — Dear  Sir  I  find  that  it  won’t 
be  convenient  for  me  to  lend  you  the  money  we 
talked  about.  In  fact,  to  tell  the  plain  truth,  I  hardly 
think  it  prudent  to  risk  any  thing  with  a  man  who 
neglects  his  business.  No  one  who  lies  in  bed  until 
eleven  or  twelve  ill  the  morning,  need  expect  to  get 
along.  Pardon  this  freedom ;  but  he  is  the  best 
friend,  generally,  who  speaks  the  plainest. 

“  Yours,  &c.,  R - .” 

.  When  bank  hours  closed,  Guzzler’s  two  notes  re¬ 
mained  unpaid.  Not  long  afterwards,  he  was  sold 
out  by  the  sheriff,  and  is  now  in  a  poor  and  miserable 
condition.  So  much  for  late  drinking  and  late  rising. 
The  man  who  sits  over  the  brandy  bottle  until  twelve 
o’clock  at  night,  and  then  sleeps  until  twelve  the 
next  day,  in  order  to  get  over  the  effects  of  his 
debauch,  mustn’t  expect  business  confidence  and  suc¬ 
cess  in  trade.  The  two  never  go'  together. 


27 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


By  Henry  Traver& 


L - ,  the  distinguished  temperance  advocate,  tells 

the  following  story — himself  the  hero. 

I  was  a  quiet,  steady-going,  unexcitable  kind  of  a 
personage,  and  not  over  fond  of  adventure,  while 
sober;  but  a  glass  or  two  of  liquor  generally  took 
away  all  my  native  discretion  and  self-respect,  and 
made  me  ripe  for  any  kind  of  a  frolic.  The  conse¬ 
quence  was,  that  every  now  and  then  I  got  into  some 
scrape  or  other,  the  result  of  which  alwrays  made  me 
conscious  that  I  had  been  playing  a  losing  game. 

On  one  occasion,  three  or  four  young  fellows,  about 
as  thoughtless  as  myself,  agreed,  while  in  liquor,  that 
we  would  disguise  ourselves,  and  take  a  trip  up  the 
river  as  far  as  Pittsburg,  and  there  have  a  first  rate 
blow  out.  One,  who  had  been  tarrying  but  a  short 
time  at  Jericho,  half  covered  his  baby  face  with  enor¬ 
mous  whiskers ;  another  mounted  green  goggles,  while 
I  bought  a  pair  of  black,  fierce-looking  moustaches, 
and  glued  them  to  my  upper  lip.  So  metamorphosed 
were  we,  that  I  hardly  think  our  mothers  would  have 
known  us. 

(404) 


PAYING  FUR  SPORT. 


405 


In  this  plight,  with  plenty  of  brandy  aboard,  we 
embarked  in  one  of  the  upward-bound  boats,  bent  on 
having  a  grand  frolic.  And  so  we  had ;  but  it  cost 
something  to  pay  the  piper,  as  it  generally  does  in 
such  cases. 

We  soon  made  it  clearly  apparent  to  our  fellow 
passengers  that  w*e  were  a  “  hard  party.”  Some  took 
note  of  our  sayings  and  doings  with  broad  grins ;  some 
with  frowns ;  and  some  with  an  indifference  that 
marked  their  contempt  for  us  as  a  parcel  of  shallow- 
pated,  drunken  fools. 

Rum  made  us  feel  of  consequence ;  so  we  showed 
ourselves  off  to  still  better  advantage.  We  swaggered 
about,  talked  of  indifferent  matters  in  loud  voices, 
swore  roundly,  and  were  as  ill-mannerly,  rude,  and 
offensive  to  the  other  passengers,  as  it  was  possible  to 
be  without  getting  up  a  quarrel..  Every  now  and 
then  we  repaired  to  the  saloon  on  the  forward  deck, 
and  took  in  a  new  stock  of  excitement  in  the  way  of 
toddies,  punches,  slings,  cobblers,  and  so  on. 

The  captain,  a  bluff,  hard-featured,  intractable 
looking  fellow,  had,  I  did  not  fail  to  see,  his  eyes 
upon  us;  and,  sometimes,  when  we  showed  off  some 
extra  flourishes,  I  could  see  a  quick  contraction 
about  his  heavy  brows.  But  brandy  was  in  the 
ascendant,  and  I  did  not  feel  afraid. 

At  dinner  time,  I  took  my  place  at  the  table,  and 
seizing  my  plate,  thrust  it  towards  one  of  the  waiters, 
theatrically,  at  the  same  time  calling  out — 

“  Here  !  you  fellow  !  Bring  me  some  roast  beef, 
rare !” 


406 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


But  the  “  fellow”  chose  to  wait  upon  a  lady  first. 

“  Waiter  !”  I  cried,  holding  my  plate  to  another  of 
the  table-attendants. 

But  he  found  it  convenient  to  supply  the  wants  of 
some  one  else  before  attending  to  me. 

“  I  say  !  Look  here  !” 

But  still  I  was  unheeded.  The  waiters  were  busy 
in  helping  others. 

“  Waiter  1”  I  at  length  shouted,  so  loudly,  and  in 
so  fierce  a  tone,  that  the  eyes  of  all  at  the  table  were 
instantly  upon  me. 

This  brought  one  of  the  attendants,  at  whom  I 
glanced  menacingly,  to  my  side. 

“  Boast  beef — rare  !”  said  I. 

“Yes,  sir.”  And  the  waiter  vanished  with  my 
plate. 

For  a  few  moments  I  sat  patiently ;  but  the  roast 
beef  not  appearing,  my  blood  began  to  move  a  little 
faster  in  my  veins.  Nearly  a  minute  elapsed,  and 
yet  I  had  obtained,  thus  far,  nothing  to  eat.  I  turned 
from  side  to  side  for  the  waiter  to  whom  I  had  given 
my  commission,  my  anger  rising  higher  and  higher 
every  moment.  Many  were  looking  at  me,  enjoying 
my  impatience,  and  I  knew  it.  At  length,  I  saw  the 
fellow  who  had  taken  my  plate,  very  coolly  attending 
to  some  one  else.  For  a  moment  or  two  I  sat  and 
looked  at  him,  hoping  to  catch  his  eye ;  but,  as  I  be¬ 
lieved,  he  purposely  avoided  looking  at  me.  Mad¬ 
dened  beyond  control,  I  sprang  from  the  table,  and, 
seizing  a  chair,  knocked  him  senseless  upon  the  floor. 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


407 


In  an  instant  I  was  seized  and  roughly  whirled 
from  the  cabin. 

“  Throw  him  overboard  !” 

“  Lynch  him  !” 

“  Knock  his  brains  out !” 

And  sundry  other  cries  of  a  like  nature  reached 
my  ears  from  the  crowd  of  excited  beings  that 
gathered  around  me. 

I  began  to  feel  a  little  sober,  and  to  be  troubled 
with  the  intrusion  of  some  not  very  agreeable 
thoughts. 

4  “  I’ll  take  care  of  him,  gentlemen,”  called  out  the 
captain,  at  this  crisis,  and  saved  me,  I  believe,  from 
being  thrown  unceremoniously  into  the  river. 

Seizing  my  arm,  he  forced  me  down  upon  the  lower 
deck,  and  calling  for  a  rope,  fastened  me  securely  to 
a  post,  where  he  left  me  in  care  of  one  of  the  hands. 
Here  I  remained  for  several  hours,  unvisited  by  either 
of  my  companions,  who  were  told,  as  I  afterwards 
learned,  that  if  they  attempted  to  go  near  me,  they 
would  be  dealt  with  after  a  fashion  not  at  all  pleasant 
to  think  about. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  was  sober  enough  by  sun¬ 
down.  My  friends — brandy,  gin,  and  whisky — who 
had  inspired  me  with  such  a  fine  flow  of  spirits,  and 
such  a  recklessness  of  consequences,  withdrew  the 
light  of  their  countenances,  and  left  me  sad,  spiritless, 
and  repentant  of  my  folly.  What  penalty  I  was  about 
to  suffer,  I  could  not  tell.  Off-hand  justice  is  never 
very  partial  to  the  culprit — of  this  I  was  well  aware, 
and  with  good  reason  dreaded  the  unknown  punish 


408 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


ment  in  store  for  me.  We  had  passed  Steubenville  a 
few  miles,  when,  soon  after  the  sun  dipped  below  the 
horizon,  the  boat  came  near  the  shore,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river,  and  I  was  unceremoniously  landed. 

A  faint  cheer  went  up  from  the* deck  of  the  steam¬ 
boat,  as  she  swung  off  into  the  channel  and  resumed 
her  course. 

You  may  be  sure  that  I  was  as  sober  as  a  judge  at 
this  stage  of  the  adventure  ;  and  not  only  sober,  but  as 
heartily  ashamed  of  my  folly  as  a  man  could  well  be. 

The  place  selected  for  my  landing  was  miles  away 
from  any  house,  at  least  on  that  side  of  the  river. 
High  hills,  densely  covered  with  wood,  arose  almost 
from  the  water’s  edge.  The  thought  of  passing  the 
night  there  alone  made  me  shudder. 

Seating  myself  on  a  fallen  tree,  I  turned  my  eyes 
first  up  and  then  down  the  river,  in  the  hope  of  see¬ 
ing  a  boat  come  in  sight.  Thus  I  remained  until  the 
darkness  closed  in  ;  and  still  there  was  no  si<rn  of 
deliverance.  As  the  sun  went  below  the  horizon,  a 
heavy  mass  of  clouds  arose,  and  gradually  spread 
over  the  sky.  Not  a  star,  therefore,  twinkled  in  the 
firmament.  As  the  night  came  down  the  wind  arose ; 
and  an  occasional  flash  of  lightning  heralded  an  ap¬ 
proaching  storm.  Soon  the  rain  came  pattering 
down  ;  and,  in  a  little  while,  a  fierce  tempest  was 
rushing  and  roaring  around  me.  So  dark  had  it  be¬ 
come,  that  I  could  only  see  to  the  distance  of  a  few 
paces,  except  when  broad  flashes  of  lightning  illumi¬ 
nated  the  wdiole  horizon.  Cowering  for  shelter  at 
the  root  of  a  great  tree,  I  endured  the  drenching  of 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


409 


i 


the  storm  for  nearly  two  hours.  Twice  during  this 
time,  as  the  lightning  made  all,  for  a  moment,  clear  as 
day,  I  saw  a  steamboat  moving  by,  and  each  time 
halloed  with  all  my  might;  but  my  voice  was  lost 
amid  the  din  of  clashing  elements. 

The  whole  of  that  night  I  passed  alone,  in  my  ex¬ 
posed  condition,  suffering  more  in  body  and  mind 
than  I  can  well  express  in  words.  At  day  dawn, 
every  joint  was  stiff  and  painful,  and  my  skin  dry, 
and  hot  with  fever.  It  was  ten  o’clock  before  I  was 
taken  off  by  a  boat  on  her  way  down  the  river. 

When  I  arrived  at  W - ,  my  native  place,  I  was  too 

ill  to  stand  on  my  feet,  and  had,  therefore,  to  be  car¬ 
ried  on  shore. 

Two  months’  confinement  to  my  chamber  with  a 
severe  rheumatic  fever,  and  a  year’s  after  suffering 
from  the  unexpelled  remnants  of  the  disease,  were  the 
penalties  I  suffered  for  my  drunken  frolic. 

After  that,  I  was  more  shy  of  my  particular  friends, 
brandy,  gin,  and  rum;  and  finally  cut  them  altogether 
as  disreputable  acquaintances,  who  were  more  likely 
to  get  me  into  trouble,  than  be  of  any  real  advantage 
to  me. 

As  for  my  partners  in  this  wild  scrape,  they  thought 
it  prudent,  after  the  summary  dealings  I  had  met  with 
from  the  captain,  to  behave  a  little  more  decently.  By 
the  time  they  reached  Pittsburg,  they  were  cooled 
off  entirely,  and  so  ashamed  of  themselves,  and  con¬ 
cerned  about  me,  that,  they  bid  their  diminished  heads. 
Early  on  the  next  day  they  took  passage  for  home ; 
and  had  the  satisfaction — if  satisfaction  it  may  bo 


410 


PAYING  FOR  SPORT. 


called — of  seeing  me  relieved  from  my  long  sojourn 
on  the  river  shore ;  for  I  was  taken  off  by  the  boat  in 
which  they  were  finding  their  way  back.  Our  meet¬ 
ing,  you  may  be  sure,  was  not  of  the  most  joyous  cha¬ 
racter.  We  had  all  paid  pretty  dearly  for  our  sport; 
though  my  bill  on  that  occasion  was  much  the 
heaviest. 


V 


/ 


LOCKED  OUT. 


By  Amerel. 


Amid  the  scenes  of  suffering  and  sorrow  which  the 
annals  of  intemperance  present,  we  occasionally  meet 
with  a  shade  of  the  ludicrous.  There  are  indivi¬ 
duals,  who,  owing  to  some  peculiarity  of  their  mental 
constitution,  never  become  habitual  drunkards.  Oc¬ 
casionally  they  indulge  in  a  night  revel,  or  a  frolic  of 
longer  duration;  but  when  this  is  over,  their  appetite 
for  strong  drink  seems  extinguished,  and  they  remain 
sober  for  months. 


(411) 


412 


LOCKED  OUT. 


Such  a  character  was  one  Dr.  Lightfoot,  so  called 
in  the  neighbourhood  where  he  resided.  The  title 
was  a  mere  soubriquet;  for,  though  his  easy,  unosten¬ 
tatious  manners  endeared  him  to  all,  yet  he  had  no 
great  stock  of  learning,  and  made  no  pretensions  to  a 
profession  of  any  kind.  Being  at  all  times  a  jolly 
companion,  his  house  was  the  resort  of  those  who,  lead¬ 
ing  a  half  useless  life  like  himself,  knew  no  way  of 
relieving  the  tediousness  of  time,  except  in  a  social 
party  or  a  glee  club.  At  such  places,  and  especially 
when  half  intoxicated,  Lightfoot  was  the  most  amus¬ 
ing  of  drones. 

A  party  of  three  or  four  men,  to  which  Lightfoot 
had  been  invited,  had  assembled  one  evening  at  the 
house  of  a  man  named  Goblet.  Decanters,  glasses, 
and  dishes  of  fruit  were  on  the  table,  and,  at  times,  a 
loud  laugh  or  a  clapping  of  hands,  announced  that  an 
anecdote  or  a  good  story  had  just  been  finished.  The 
liquor  was,  however,  untouched,  and  the  men  seemed 
to  be  waiting  anxiously  for  the  arrival  of  others. 

“  Afraid  the  doctor  can’t  get  here,”  one  of  them 
said,  at  length. 

“  That  will  be  a  disappointment.  Is  it  raining 
yet?” 

“  You’ll  believe  so  if  you  come  to  the  window.  The 

V 

poor  old  man  would  be  drowned,  big  as  he  is.” 

Contrary  to  all  probability,  Lightfoot’s  heavy  knock 
was  heard  at  the  door.  He  was  soon  in  the  room. 

“  Come  at  last,  doctor,”  greeted  his  ears  as  he 
entered.  A  stormy  evening.” 

“Terrible.  I’m  wet,  too,”  he  replied,  as  he  stood 


LOCKED  OUT. 


413 


puffing,  while  the  water  poured  from  his  umbrella 
and  coat.  The  dripping  garments  were  speedily  re¬ 
moved  by  his  friends. 

“Why,  doctor,  you’re  out  of  breath,”  exclaimed 
Goblet. 

“  Most  dead.  The  omnibus  man  wouldn’t  stop — I 
chased  him  half  a  square — till  die,  I  thought  I  would. 
I  catched  up — it  was  full.  You  know  I’m  poor  at 
running.” 

“  So  you  walked  the  whole  way  ?” 

“  Yes — what  o’clock  is  it?” 

“  Just  eight,  doctor.” 

“  I  started  at  seven — it’s  the  way  when  you’re  in  a 
hurry.  Let’s  have  a  glass,  if  you  please.” 

Wine  was  poured  out,  and  the  whole  party,  seating 
themselves  round  the  table,  rapidly  emptied  one  glass 
after  another,  accompanying  the  draughts  by  exten¬ 
sive  levies  upon  the  cakes  and  fruit.  As  the  provisions 
diminished,  the  hilarity  increased,  until  the  room  rang 
with  shouting  and  stamping.  Songs,  anecdotes,  and 
shouts  of  laughter  were  mingled  together  in  inextri¬ 
cable  and  indescribable  confusion.  One  called  for  a 
glee,  another  for  a  round ;  while  Goblet,  emptying  a 
wine-glass  into  his  bosom,  declared  he  could  drink 
and  sing  at  the  same  time.  A  few  moments  after¬ 
wards,  two  of  them,  having  thrown  themselves  back 
in  a  chair,  were  singing  a  double  bass,  and  keeping 
time  with  hand  and  foot. 

“  Hear  me,  boys  !”  Goblet  shouted.  They  sang  on. 
“  I’ve  a  new — a  new  notion.”  Still  they  sang  on. 
“  Let  one  of  us  recite^-recite  a  page — two  pages-- 


414 


LOCKED  OUT. 


of — Shakspeare,  and ”  The  melody  had  now  in¬ 
creased  to  double  forte,  and,  mingling  with  the  stamp¬ 
ing  of  feet,  drowned  all  other  sound.  Goblet’s  pro¬ 
posal  was  lost  in  the  din. 

During  the  performance,  the  doctor  had  been 
lounging  quietly  in  his  chair,  emptying,  with  great 
industry,  one  glass  of  wine  after  another,  while  his 
small  eyes  twinkled  with  delight.  It  was  his  habit, 
on  such  occasions,  to  remain  a  silent  spectator  until 
his  companions  were  pretty  well  exhausted,  and  then 
to  break  forth  into  exercises  of  his  own,  so  original 
and  startling,  that  they  aroused  his  half-sleeping 
audience  to  another  hour’s  revel.  Such  was  the  case 
on  the  present  occasion.  He  saw,  with  astonishing 
apathy,  his  companions  advance,  step  by  step,  to  the 
summit  of  merriment,  and  then  sink,  with  head  and 
elbows,  upon  the  table ;  but  his  own  turn  came  at  last. 
Just  as  the  voices  of  Goblet  and  the  other  two  were 
dying  away  in  feeble  mutterings,  Lightfoot,  with  sten¬ 
torian  lungs,  burst  into  the  well-known  street  rhapsody, 
“We  won’t  go  home  till  morning !” 

“Ha — a?”  drawled  Goblet’s  right  hand  assistant, 
raising  his  head  and  looking  at  the  doctor,  curiously. 
By  that  time,  Lightfoot  had  reached  the  words,  “  broad 
daylight,”  to  which  he  added  a  variation  of  rapid  ha  ! 
ha!  ha’s,  accompanied  by  stamping,  which  consider¬ 
ably  disturbed  the  slumbers  of  his  friends.  The  se¬ 
cond  verse  began  still  louder,  and  the  singer,  swaying 
to  right  and  left,  marked  the  time  with  beats  and  ac¬ 
cents,  which  made  the  windows  and  the  decanters 
jingle. 


LOCKED  OUT. 


415 


“  What’s  the  matter?*’  exclaimed  Goblet,  seizing  a 
decanter. 

“  Chorus,  boys — full  and  strong !”  the  doctor 

*  u  O 

■  ** 

shouted. 

“I’m  sick,”  one  of  them  groaned. 

“  We  won’t  go  home  till  morning !”  roared  Light- 
foot.  And  one  or  two  voices,  feeble  as  echoes, ’re¬ 
peated.  “  morning.”  The  doctor,  encouraged  by  such 
success,  put  forth  his  whole  strength,  so  that  before 
the  close  of  the  song,  the  entire  party  were  again  in 
full  blast. 

“Give  us  another,  doctor!”  arose  from  all  sides. 
But  the  doctor  needed  no  stimulus.  Throwing  his 
head  upward,  to  allow  his  voice  its  whole  volume,  he 
poured  forth,  during  more  than  an  hour,  songs,  catches, 
and  solos,  until  the  room  resembled  a  bedlam. 

“  Who’ll  dance  ?”  exclaimed  Goblet,  making  a 
strong  effort  to  rise. 

“A  dance!  a  dance!”  echoed  his  drunken  com¬ 
panions  ;  and  Goblet,  after  several  ineffectual  attempts, 
succeeded  in  rising.  He  reeled  towards  the  middle 
of  the  room,  and  began  a  series  of  zigzag  steps,  amid 
the  laughter  and  jeers  of  his  companions.  But,  in 
spite  of  the  powerful  encouragement  of  Lightfoot’s' 
voice,  he  dared  not  trust  himself  upon  one  foot,  but 
stumbled  backward  and  forward,  wdiile  his  arms  and 
head  wagged  in  sympathy  with  his  feet.  At  last  he 
moved  towards  a  chair;  but,  unfortunately,  in  the 
act  of  seating  himself,  he  struck  its  edge,  and  came 
down,  with  a  deafening  noise,  upon  the  floor.  A  roar 
of  laughter  arose  from  his  companions ;  but  the  fall 


416 


LOCKED  OUT. 


sobered  Goblet  in  an  instant.  The  chair,  which  came 
with  him,  had  inflicted  pretty  severe  braises  upon  his 
head,  to  which  was  added  the  effects  of  the  heavy 
shock.  For  a  while  he  writhed  over  the  floor  with 
ludicrous  contortions  of  face  and  figure.  Some  one 
was  heard  at  the  door. 

“•Is  any  thing  the  matter?”  inquired  a  servant, 
timidly,  looking  into  the  room. 

He  was  ordered  down  stairs.  By  the  vigorous  ex¬ 
ertions  of  Lightfoot,  Goblet  was  raised  from  the  floor 
and  conducted  to  a  chair. 

This  accident  destroyed  the  hilarity  for  that  even¬ 
ing:  and,  at  a  few  minutes  past  midnight,  the  party 
broke  up. 

Lightfoot’s  spirits,  like  an  overstrained  bow,  began 
to  flag,  and  a  longing  desire  for  sleep  came  over  him, 
even  before  the  accident  to  Goblet.  It  was  precisely 
when  in  this  condition  that  he  was  the  counterpart 
of  what  we  have  beheld  him  under  the  first  influence 
of  intoxication — peevish,  irascible,  hasty.  The  con¬ 
dition  of  the  weather  was  such  as  to  increase  these 
feelings  to  an  indefinite  extent ;  for  of  all  things,  Light- 
foot  detested  walking  through  the  rain.  This,  was, 
however,  unavoidable ;  and  the  old  man,  after  throw¬ 
ing  out  some  doleful  remarks  about  “pouring,” 
“  slush,”  and  his  “  health,”  stepped  upon  the  pave¬ 
ment,  His  intellect  being  in  a  lethargic  state,  from 
which  he  partially  aroused,  only  when  the  recollection 
of  the  rain  and  the  late  hour  occurred  to  his  mind,  he 
totally  forgot  that  he  held  an  umbrella  under  his  arm, 
and,  consequently,  walked  home  without  raising  it. 


LOCKED  OUT. 


417 


After  a  terrible  journey  of  more  than  an  hour's  dura¬ 
tion,  he  came  to  the  last  corner,  round  which  was  a 
direct  road,  with  pavement  the  whole  way  to  his  own 
door.  To  any  other  man  this  would  have  been  an 
occasion  of  rejoicing ;  but  Dr.  Lightfoot  was  not  like 
other  men  ;  and  now,  to  wound  still  more  his  already 
lacerated  feelings,  an  envious  thought  suddenly  oc¬ 
curred  to  his  mind.  It  was  that  of  Mrs.  Lightfoot, 
seated  comfortablv  at  home,  while  he  was  suffering 
in  the  storm.  It  almost  overwhelmed  him.  “She 
don’t  care  if  I  perish,”  he  muttered,  “so  she’s  well 
herself.  Worse  and  worse — it’s  trickling  down  my 

back.  Any  woman,  to  see  her  husband  out  such  a 

/ 

night  as  this  !  oh  !  it’s  dreadful !  — after  ten  o’clock, 
too!  curse  the  glee  club! — must  have  a  heart  of 
flint.  Only  listen!”  he  groaned,  as  the  wind  whistled 
over  his  head.  “I’ll  not  go  out  again,  if  I  only  get 
home  alive,  no,  not  for  a  year.” 

Lightfoot  was  now  hard  by  his  dwelling,  He  rang 
the  bell  convulsively,  and  was  soon  inside  of  the  hall. 

“Start  about  your  business!”  was  his  first  excla¬ 
mation  to  the  servant  who  offered  to  take  his  umbrella. 
“They’d  see  a  man  drown,”  he  soliloquized,  “with¬ 
out  asking  him  if  he  was  wet,  or  bringing  him  an 
umbrella.”  Perceiving  that  useful  article  under  his 
arm,  he  hurriedly  seized  a  light,  and  ascended  the 
stairway  which  led  to  his  room. 

“It’s  shut,  is  it?”  was  his  first  summons,  as  he 
kicked  the  door  with  fearful  emphasis.  “Is  it  shut? 
And  you’d  see  me  suffer” — another  kick — “with 
cold” — another  kick — “  at  this  time  of  night,  would 


418 


LOCKED  OUT 


you  !” — Here  he  battered  the  panel  with  his  fist, — 
“  you  cruel,” — a  kick — “  hard  hearted, ’’-—two  kicks — 
“  wretch !” 

By  this  time  audible  sounds  proceeded  from  the 
room.  Mrs.  Lightfoot  had  evidently  risen. 

“  Let  me  in  !”  roared  the  doctor,  charging  the  door 

7  O  O 

at  full  speed. 

“  Thieves  !  murder!’7  screamed  Mrs.  Lightfoot. 

“  Open  the  door,  instantly  !  open  the  door !”  And 
the  panel  resounded  at  each  word. 

“Heaven  help  us!”  screamed  a  woman,  rushing 
from  her  room. 

“  What’s  the  matter  ?”  exclaimed  another,  peeping 
through  the  carefully  opened  door. 


LOCKED  OUT. 


419 


The  doctor  was  now  plying  both  feet  alternately, 
so  that  the  door  appeared  failing  fast.  Mrs.  Lightfoot 
was  heard  at  the  window,  inside,  screaming  for  the 
police ;  while  the  servants  and  boarders,  having 
reached  the  scene  of  disturbance,  were  enjoying  it 
with  the  keenest  relish. 

“  Maybe  the  man  wants  to  see  somebody,”  said  a 
boarder  who  had  arrived  that  day. 

“'Kick  harder,  doctor,”  exclaimed  a  waggish  young 
man,  on  Lightfoot’s  right  hand. 

Such  jests,  accompanied  by  shouts  of  laughter,  in¬ 
creased  his  rage  to  the  highest  pitch,  and,  with  dole¬ 
ful  cries,  he  kicked  and  knocked  the  door  with  feet 
and  hands.  As  his  temper  increased,  the  mirth  of  the 
group  around  him  reached  its  height;  so  that  every 
knock  upon  the  door  was  greeted  by  such  expressions 
as  “  That’s  it,”  “  Hit  him  again,”  “  Strike,  but  hear 
me,”  “  Once  more  into  the  breach,”  &c. ;  while  in¬ 
side  Mrs.  Lightfoot  was  heard  screaming  murder. 

“  Look  here,  neighbour,”  exclaimed  a  bystander, 
who  thought  the  performance  had  gone  quite  far 
enough,  “It’s  now  nearly  two  o’clock;  and  we  folks 
who  stay  in  at  night,  want  some  sleep.  If  you  are  so 
fond  of  kicking,  go  into  the  street,  or  I’ll  call  an  offi¬ 
cer  to  take  you.” 

“  Why  don’t  she  let  me  in,  then  ?” 

“  If  you  can’t  get  in  without  all  this  hubbub,  “  we’ll 
provide  lodging  for  you  I  assure  you.” 

“Look  at  me!”  whined  the  doctor.  “I’ve  passed 
through  more  trials  than  would  kill  a  horse ;  and 


28 


420 


LOCKED  OUT. 


4, ■ 

.•6  M.**  J  • — 


when  I  come  home,  all  dripping,  she  locks  me  out. 
Let  me  in  !  let  me  in  !”  and  the  assault  recommenced. 

“  Why,  doctor,  it  isn’t  you,  is  it?”  inquired  the 
voice  within.  “  Is  it  you,  dear  ?” 

“Let  me  in,  you  false,  deceitful  hypocrite!  Let 
me  in,  or  I’ll  stave  the  door  through !” 

“  Will  you  be  quiet  or  not?”  said  the  man  who  had 
undertaken  to  interfere.  —  - 


• ■  -  .  •  £  '  r  •  # 

“  Why,  dear,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lightfoot,  half  open¬ 
ing  the  door,  “  it  wasn’t  locked.”' 


“Don’t  speak  to  me!”  shouted: ;  the  doctor. 

‘  ?  JV-# « :j>  •  •  ...  tr,  ’  '  it 

“Wouldn’t  it  have  flown  open  when  l  knocked?— 

.*  ■(;,  '  - 

wouldn’t  it,  if  it  wasn’t  locked  ?” 

The  doctor  had  just  finished  this  question  when  a 
hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 

“Hands  off!”  he  shouted. 


“  Not  at  present,”  was  the  reply.  “  I  want  you 
with  me  fo-nmht.” 


“  I- 


I  was  trying  to  get  in  my  room,-  exclaimed 


Lightfoot 

You  must  <ro  with  me.” 


n 

it 


7  v-.  /  .  t 

•-  ,  ■  •  v  .V-  f 

^  *  •  !  > 

“Oh,  sir!”  exclaimed  the  poor  doctor,  much  so¬ 
bered,  “it’s  all  over — couldn’t  get  in,  that’s  all;  but 


it’s  all  over.” 


"T 

.  r  >\.  •  ■ 


/ 


“You  must  go  with  me,  though,  and  apeount  for 
the  night’s  disturbance.”  -  ^ 


/ 

“It  ain’t  necessary — indeed  it  ain’t  sir.  I  \Vas  wet, 
watchman,  and  cross  ;  but  it’s  over— over.” 

The  watchman  shook  his  head.  “  You  must  come 
along.” 

“  Oh,  no  !  no  !  no  !”  screamed  Mrs.  Lightfoot, 


LOCKED  OUT. 


421 

v. t*  '•  i 

wringing  her  hands.  “  Don’t  take  my  poor  husband  !  V 
He’s  the  kindest  of  men.  Please,  for  my  sake,  you  / 
won’t  take  him.  It’s  all  my  fault  that  I  wasn’t  up — 
indeed  it  ks !” 

The  doctor’s  fortitude  now  gave  way.  “  Oh,  don’t 
take  me! — not  to-night!  It’s  only  the  first  offence! 

I’ll  do  better  in  future — indeed  I  will !  It’s  Dick 
Goblet’s  fault.  I  didn’t  want  to  go.  Please  let  go 
my  arm”  ! 

At  length  the  matter  was  compromised;  and  the 
doctor,  with  his  wife,  was  allowed  to  retire.  “  This 
is  my  last  frolic,”  was  heard  by  the  merry  crowd,  as 
the  door  closed  upon  them. 

*  •  1 

Tr  v 


THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  A  BEAST  OF  HIMSELF. 


By  Henry  Travers. 


“If  your  husband  will  make  a  beast  of  himself,” 
said  old  Mrs.  Gnipen,  and  her  harsh  features  showed 
harsher  lines  than  before — “if  your  husband  will 
make  a  beast  of  himself,  that’s  your  misfortune.  I’ve 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  So  you  needn’t  come  whining 
to  me.” 


(422) 


THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  A  BEAST,  ETC.  423 

“If  Mr.  Gnipen  wouldn’t  sell  him  liquor,  ma’am,” 
sobbed  the  poor  woman,  who  had  received  the  repul¬ 
sive  answer  of  the  landlord’s  wife — “if  you  and  Mr. 
Gnipen  wouldn’t  sell  him  liquor,  but  would  just  say 
to  him,  in  a  kind  way - ” 

“  Not  sell  liquor,  indeed !”  and  the  old  lady  drew 
herself  up  in  supreme  astonishment  at  such  a  propo¬ 
sition.  “  And  pray,  Mrs.  Wimbleton,  for  what  pur¬ 
pose  do  you  think  we  keep  tavern  ?  If  your  husband 
will  make  a  beast  of  himself - ” 

“  Now  don’t  say  that  again,  Mrs.  Gnipen,”  said  poor 
Mrs.  Wimbleton,  in  a  distressed  voice.  “  My  hus¬ 
band  isn’t  a  beast.  Not  a  kinder  man  is  there  alive, 
if  he’d  only  let  drink  alone.” 

“  Why  don’t  he  let  it  alone,  then?  or  why  can’t  he 
use  it  in  moderation,  as  a  decent  man  should  ?  Here 
he  comes,  every  two  or  three  days,  and  drinks  and 
drinks  until  he  makes  a  fool  of  himself,  and  disgraces 
our  house,  which  has  always  been  a  decent,  orderly 
house.” 

“  Don’t  sell  him  liquor,  then,  Mrs.  Gnipen.  He 
can’t  drink  without  going  beyond  himself.  He’s 
weak  in  this  matter.” 

“  No,  Mrs.  Wimbleton,  we  never  do  that.  If  we 
refuse  to  sell  to  one  man,  because  his  wife  comes  sni¬ 
velling  about,  we’ll  have  our  house  surrounded  by  wo¬ 
men  in  little  or  no  time.  Keep  your  husband  at  home; 
that’s  all  the  consolation  I  have  to  give  you.  Keep 
him  at  home,  Mrs.  Wimbleton.” 

“  If  your  husband,  Mrs.  Gnipen - ” 


424 


THE  MAN  WHO  MADE 


“  What  have  you  got  to  say  about  my  husband  7” 
fiercely  inquired  the  old  woman. 

“  If  your  husband  w7ere  to  come  home  in  liquor, 
you’d  maybe  have  a  little  more  feeling - ” 

“  My  husband  come  home  in  liquor !  Mr.  Gnipen 
get  drunk !” 

The  tavern-keeper’s  wife  boiled  over  with  anger, 
and  she  raised  her  clenched  hand,  and  shook  it  fiercely 
at  the  poor,  shrinking  creature,  who  stood  before  her. 

“  He’s  as  likely  to  get  drunk  as  any  one,”  retorted 
Mrs.  Wimbleton,  who  felt  very  much  like  the  tram¬ 
pled  woman — disposed  to  show  that  all  life  was  not 
entirely  crushed  out  of  her. 

“  You’d  better  not  say  that  again,  Mrs.  Wimbleton ! 
You’d  better  not  tempt  me  too  far!  No  one  shall 
speak  ill  of  my  husband !” 

“  He’s  bloated  up  now  as  big  as  one  of  his  brandy 
casks!”  retorted  Mrs.  Wimbleton,  gaining  courage; 
uand  if  he  isn’t  brought  home  on  a  wheelbarrow, 
one  of  these  days,  as  drunk  as  a  beast,  I’m  no  prophet. 
And  so  good  morning  to  you,  Mrs.  Gnipen.  When 
that  happens,  I’ll  call  and  give  you  my  compliments. 
Maybe,  then  you’ll  have  a  little  more  feeling  for 
others.  Maybe,  then  you  won’t  be  so  quick  to  tell 
other  women  about  their  husbands’  making  beasts^of 
themselves.” 

And  saying  this,  Mrs.  Wimbleton  retired.  The 
heat  of  her  anger  had  dried  up  her  tears.  Her  form 
no  longer  drooped  in  attitude.  Her  step  was  quick 
and  firm.  As  she  walked  on  towards  her  home,  she 
met  Mr.  Wimbleton  on  his  way  to  Gnipen’s  tavern. 


A  BEAST  OF  HIMSELF. 


425 


“  John,”  said  she,  in  a  quick  voice,  and  she  laid  her 
hand  firmly  on  his  arm  as  she  spoke,  “  where  are 
you  going?” 

“Over  to  Gni pen’s,”  replied  Wimbleton,  evincing 
some  surprise  at  the  manner  of  his  wife,  so  changed 
from  its  usual  patient  submissive  character. 

“To  Gnipen’s !  And  do  you  know  what  Mrs. 
Gnipen  says  of  you  ?” 

“  What  does  she  say  ?” 

“  Why,  that  you  make  a  beast  of  yourself!” 

“ How  do  you  know?” 

“  She  told  me  so  to  my  teeth,  so  she  did  !” 

“And  what  did  you  say,  Kate?”  Wimbleton  felt 
some  risings  of  indignation. 

“  I  told  her  that  her  husband  was  little  more  than 
a  brandy  cask,  and  that  I’d  live  to  see  him  brought 
home  on  a  wheelbarrow.” 

“You  were  sharp,  Kate.”  Wimbleton  laughed. 
“How  did  the  old  crone  relish  that  part  of  the  joke?” 

“Not  much.  She  fairly  boiled  over  with  rage.” 

“  Brought  home  on  a  wheelbarrow  !  Ha  !  ha  !” 

Wimbleton  seemed  greatly  amused  at  the  idea. 

“  What  put  that  into  your  head  ?” 

“  I  had  to  sav  something  to  bring  the  old  wretch  to 
her  feeling;  and  I  think  I  succeeded.  To  talk  to 
me  of  your  making  a  beast  of  yourself!  I  couldn’t 
stand  it.” 

“  Old  Gnipen  on  a  wheelbarrow  !  Ha !  ha  !”  Wim¬ 
bleton  couldn’t  get  over  that. 

“  Come  home.  John,”  said  Mrs.  Wimbleton,  who 
still  had  tight  hold  of  her  husband’s  arm,  and  now 


/ 


426 


THE  MAN  WHO  MADE 


gently  drew  him  the  way  she  wished  him  to  go. 
“  Don’t  visit  places  where  they  talk  of  you  being  a 
beast.” 

Wimbleton  yielded  to  his  wife’s  persuasion ;  and, 
as  he  walked  along  by  her  side,  laughed  outright 
every  now  and  then,  saying,  as  he  did  so — 

“  Gnipen  on  a  wheelbarrow  !  That’s  too  good  !” 

“Now  don’t  go  to  that  tavern  any  more,  John. 
Don’t!  you  will  kill  me!”  said  Mrs.  Wimbleton,  on 
their  arrival  at  home.  “  Don’t  let  people  say  you 
make  a  beast  of  yourself.  Have  more  pride,  more  re¬ 
spect  for  yourself,  more  respect  for  me  and  the  chil¬ 
dren.” 

“  I  won’t  go  there  but  once  more,  Kate,”  replied 
Wimbleton. 

“  Don’t  go  at  all,  John.” 

“  Yes,  once.  When  Gnipen  is  trundled  home  on  a 
wheelbarrow,  I’m  going  along  to  witness  his  recep¬ 
tion.  Make  a  beast  of  myself,  do  I  ?” 

“  I  was  only  talking  at  Mrs.  Gnipen.  I  don’t  sup¬ 
pose  it  will  happen,”  said  Mrs.  Wimbleton. 

“  It  will  happen  then,  Kate;  and  that  too,  before 
night,  or  my  name  is  not  John  Wimbleton.  The 
Sporting  Club  dines  at  the  White  Swag^To-day,  and 
Gnipen  is  always  present  on  these  occasions.  Last 
time,  and  the  time  before  that,  I  saw  him  staggering 
home  a  little  before  dark,  so  tipsy  that  it  would  have 
puzzled  him  to  say  whether  he  were  going  up  hill  or 
down.  This  evening  he  will,  no  doubt,  be  in  the 
same  happy  state,  and  prepared  to  enjoy  the  ride  you 
spoke  of,  amazingly.” 


A  BEAST  OF  HIMSELF. 


427 


And  laughing  to  himself,  Wimbleton  went  off  to 
the  shop  where  he  worked.  He  had  not  quite  lost 
all  self-respect,  nor  w&s  he  entirely  indifferent  to  the 
feelings  of  his  wife.  The  fact  that  Gnipen’s  better 
half  should  have  insulted  Kate  so  grossly,  galled  him 
much  more  than  was  apparent  to  her ;  and  when  she 
spoke  of  having  retorted  after  the  fashion  related,  he 
instantly  conceived  the  idea  of  executing  what  she 
had  prophesied,  at  the  same  time,  that  he  took  a  strong 
internal  resolution  to  abandon  a  habit  that  was  fast 
dragging  him  down  towards  disgrace  and  ruin. 

“  Tom,”  said  Wimbleton,  to  a  half-witted  person 
who  turned  a  wheel  in  the  shop  where  he  worked — 
“Tom,  do  you  think  you  could  wheel  old  Gnipen  for 
the  distance  of  a  square  or  two?” 

“  Oh  yes,  if  he’d  sit  still,”  replied  Tom,  grinning 
at  the  novel  suggestion. 

“Very  well,  Tom,  I’ll  give  you  two  shillings  for 
the  job.” 

“  And  a  treat  into  the  bargain  ?”  inquired  Tom. 

“  No  !”  Wimbleton  looked  grave  as  he  shook  his 
head.  “  No,  Tom  !  This  treating  is  a  bad  business. 
I’m  going  to  stop  it.  I’ve  sworn  off  from  drinking 
any  more.  When  a  man  drinks  until  they  calLhim 
a  beast,  I  think  it’s  about  time  to  stop.” 

Dressed  up  in  his  best,  and  feeling  his  importance, 
the  landlord  went  to  the  dinner  of  the  Sporting  Club, 
where  he  drank  wine  and  brandy  until  he  was  only 
a  little  above  the  condition  of  some  of  his  companions, 
who  were  under  the  table. 

In  this  interesting  condition,  he  started  for  home, 


428 


THE  MAN  WHO  MADE 


carefully  setting  down  his  feet  at  every  step,  and 
vainly  imagining  that  he  was  going  along  in  a  math¬ 
ematical  line,  when,  in  fact,  he  was,  to  all  appearance, 
engineering  for  the  location  of  a  Virginia  worm  fence. 

Suddenly,  and  without  any  perceptible  warning, 
landlord  Gnipen  found  his  heels  tripped  up,  and  his 
rotund  body,  corporation  and  all,  transferred  1o  some 
vehicle,  the  exact  nature  of  which  he  could  not  at 
first  make  out.  But,  in  a  little  while,  his  bewildered 
senses  were  clear  enough  to  enable  him  to  compre¬ 
hend  that  he  was  riding  on  a  wheelbarrow,  attended 
by  a  pretty  respectable  and  pretty  noisy  escort. 

To  move  from  his  position  he  found  impossible ; 
for,  like  a  great  turtle,  he  had  been  turned  upon  his 
back.  To  keep  from  rolling  upon  the  ground,  he 
clung  eagerly  to  the  side  of  his  carriage,  which  was 
rapidly  propelled  by  Tom,  in  fulfilment  of  his  con¬ 
tract  with  Mr.  Wimbleton ;  while,  sober  as  a  judge, 
and  calmly  enjoying  his  pipe,  the  last  named  indi¬ 
vidual  walked  erect  by  the  side  of  the  tipsy  landlord. 

Mrs.  Gnipen  was  taking  her  afternoon  nap  in  her 
large  cushioned  chair,  dreaming  a  pleasant  dream 
after  the  subsidence  of  her  indignation,  which  had 
been  aroused  by  Mrs.  Wimbleton’s  slanderous  sug¬ 
gestion  about  her  husband  and  a  wheelbarrow,  when 
she  was  aroused  by  the  noise  of  shouting  and  loud 
laughter.  By  the  time  she  was  fairly  awake,  the 
door  was  flung  open,  and  in  came  the  astonished  land¬ 
lord  to  visit  his  no  less  astonished  wife,  in  all  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  a  one  wheeled  carriage,  accompanied  by  a  host 
of  attendants. 


A  BEAST  OF  IIIMSELF. 


429 


“  Three  cheers  for  Gnipen  !”  cried  Wimbleton,  as 
Tom  tipped,  dexterously,  the  wheelbarrow,  and 
dropped  his  load  at  the  feet  of  the  landlady.  “  Three 
cheers  for  the  man  who  never  made  a  beast  of  him¬ 
self!” 

Three  loud  and  long  cheers  went  up  from  the 
crowd  which  had  been  attracted  by  the  novel  sight  of 
Boniface  going  home  from  the  club  dinner,  drunk,  on 
a  wheelbarrow. 

“  Now,  right  about  face  and  march  !”  added  Wim¬ 
bleton,  moving  towards  the  door  as  he  spoke  ;  and  the 
crowd,  imitating  his  example,  left  Mrs.  Gnipen  to 
console  herself  as  best  she  could  over  an  event  that 
was  to  her  humiliating  beyond  conception. 

Now  Gnipen,  though  engaged  in  a  calling  that  re¬ 
flects  honour  on  no  man,  but  rather  disgrace,  had  the 
organ  of  self-esteem  largely  developed.  He  considered 
himself  a  person  of  standing  and  importance  in  the 
community,  and,  if  the  truth  were  told,  a  little  better 
than  his  neighbours.  Terrible,  therefore,  was  his 
mortification,  when,  on  a  return  to  sobriety,  he  be¬ 
came  fully  aware  of  the  disgraceful  liberty  that  had 
been  taken  with  him  ;  and  that  it  was  all  over  town 
how  he  had  been  taken  home  drunk  on  a  wheel¬ 
barrow. 

As  for  Mrs.  Gnipen,  she  could  not  hold  her  head 
up  in  the  bar-room,  and  showed  herself  there  no 
more.  Something  of  what  poor  wives  suffered,  whose 
husbands  she  had  helped  to  debase,  she  now  experi¬ 
enced,  and  no  one  pitied  her  suffering.  As  for  Gnipen 
himself,  the  cruel  jibes  and  jeers  of  his  free  and  easy 


430  THE  MAN  WHO  MADE  A  BEAST,  ETC. 

%  » 

drinking  customers  galled  him  so  terribly,  that,  after 
enduring  them  for  a  little  while,  he  became  fretted 
beyond  endurance,  and,  selling  out  his  tavern,  went 
off  and  set  up  in  a  neighbouring  town.  But  the  story 
of  his  wheelbarrow  adventure  followed  him  there. 
This,  and  the  fact  of  not  doing  very  well  in  the  new 
stand,  finally  drove  him  off  into  the  country,  where 
he  is  now  engaged  in  the  more  honourable  and  useful 
employment  of  a  farmer. 

Wimbleton  kept  his  good  resolution,  much  to  the 
joy  of  his  wife.  . 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


By  AMBREIi 


In  that  portion  of  the  Connecticut  valley  which 
forms  part  of  Massachusetts,  is  a  town  now  one  of 
the  most  flourishing  in  the  district,  but  no  later  than 

(431) 


432 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


a  generation  ago,  small  and  unimportant.  Fifteen 
years  since,  the  largest  store  in  the  town  was  kept  by 
one  Thomas  Argali,  a  native  of  the  place.  As  is 
usual  in  village  stores,  he  sold  every  thing — groceries, 
drygoods,  cutlery,  medicines,  liquors,  farming  imple¬ 
ments,  fancy  goods,  confectionaries,  and  poultry.  Ar¬ 
gali  was  a  jolly  fellow,  and  being  known  by  every 
body  for  miles  around,  his  business  thrived  wonder¬ 
fully.  Of  course  his  store  was  a  favourite  resort  of 
the  town  people,  especially  after  the  postoffice  for 
the  district  had  been  established  there.  Old  farmers, 
from  a  distance  of  thirty  or  forty  miles,  who  neither 
received  letters  nor  expected  to  receive  them,  called 
at  the  postoffice  whenever  in  town,  and  after  lament¬ 
ing  the  neglect  of  their  correspondents,  sat  down  to 
spend  the  day.  When  the  labourers  of  the  town  were 
released  by  the  approach  of  night,  they  collected  at 
Argali’s  to  smoke,  chat,  tell  tales,  and  sing  songs;  so 
that  his  establishment  often  resembled  a  tavern  or 
beer-shop,  instead  of  a  store  for  the  sale  of  useful 
articles. 

Among  the  classes  of  articles  that  formed  Argali’s 
stock,  liquors  occupied  a  conspicuous  place.  The 
revenue  derived  from  the  sale  of  them  was  great,  for 
he  supplied  not  only  his  own  town,  but  most  of  the 
villages  for  miles  around.  Always  accommodating, 
he  sold  small  quantities  as  well  as  large ;  and  this 
rendered  him  a  general  favourite  with  those,  who,  on 
numerous  occasions,  found  their  cash  proper  to 
amount  to  no  more  than  three  or  five  cents. 

Thus  for  many  years  the  business  of  the  “  Grocery, 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


433 


Liquor,  and  Variety  Store,”  advanced  prosperously, 
and  its  proprietor  accumulated  money.  It  is  true, 
there  were  many  drunkards  about  the  town ;  nor 
could  it  escape  the  intelligence  of  the  dullest  person, 
that  they  bought  the  liquor,  which  intoxicated  them, 
at  Argali’s.  But  in  those  days  such  matters  were  re¬ 
garded  as  matters  of  course.  If  a  man  choose  to  be 
a  sot  or  a  brute,  who  had  the  right  to  hinder  him? 
Let  each  one  mind  his  own  business,  and  allow  the 
rest  of  mankind  to  get  along  through  life  as  they 
choose.  If  they  ran  the  race  without  stumbling,  well. 
If  half  a  dozen  did  stumble,  let  the  hind  ones  pass 
them.  If  a  few  like  the  drunkard  fell,  let  no  dunce 
stop  to  pick  him  up,  because  it  is  plain  to  ail,  that 
every  body  has  a  right  to  fall.  Such  was  the  reason¬ 
ing  of  that  day ;  and  its  cruel  sophistry  crushed  the 
struggling  hope  of  many  a  wretch  from  misery  to 
despair,  and  sheltered  the  rum-seller  from  the  wither¬ 
ing  indignation  of  his  fellow-men. 

The  winter  of  1833,  was  one  of  great  severity 
throughout  the  district  in  which  the  town  was  situ¬ 
ated.  In  January,  Argali  had  occasion  to  visit  a  vil¬ 
lage  in  Connecticut,  at  which  time  he  was  absent 
more  than  a  week*  He  returned  late  in  the  evening; 
and  on  the  following  morning  no  small  stir  was 
created  among  his  neighbours  by  the  discovery  that 
his  sign  was  down.  While  various  speculations 
were  advanced  to  explain  this  phenomenon,  news  was 
circulated  that  another  sign  had  been  hoisted,  bearing 
the  words  “  Temperance  Grocery,  and  Variety  Store.” 
This  threw  the  town  into  a  ferment,  or  rather  uproar. 


434 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


Trusty  agents  were  despatched  from  all  quarters  to 
ascertain  if  the  rumour  was  true ;  and  on  their  re¬ 
porting  in  the  affirmative,  a  consultation  was  held,  on 
the  propriety  of  repairing  in  a  body  to  the  store,  and 
inquiring  into  the  cause.  All  were  alarmed  at  the 
idea  of  a  Temperance  store;  but  that  Argali  seriously 
designed  to  stop  selling  liquor,  nobody  could  believe. 

In  the  evening  the  store  wras  filled.  All  ages  and 
both  sexes  were  represented,  each  clamouring  to  know 
why  the  store  had  been  changed  to  a  Temperance 
grocery.  After  the  tumult  had  somewhat  subsided,  a 
man  named  Warren,  advanced  before  the  counter, 
and  asked  the  storekeeper  if  he  had  actually  intended 
to  sell  no  more  liquor. 

“I  will  neither  sell  nor  buy  another  drop!”  was 
the  answer. 

A  confused  din  of  voices  succeeded  this  announce¬ 
ment.  The  passions  of  many  in  the  crowd  were 
evidently  rising. 

“How  do  you  expect  to  live?”  asked  another 

“  I  will  live  by  keeping  a  Temperance  grocery 
store,”  Argali  replied. 

“Ha,  ha!”  exclaimed  a  third  speaker.  “A  Tern 
perance  grocery — ha,  ha,  ha !  Won’t  sustain  you  a 
year.” 

“Then  I’ll  lock  up  the  store  and  go  to  farming,” 
was  the  firm  reply. 

“  What  on  earth  put  this  notion  in  your  head  ?” 
exclaimed  a  disconsolate  toper. 

“  He’s  a  fool — that’s  it,”  resumed  another.  “  And 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER.  435 

I  must  tell  you,  Argali,  I  always  thought  you  were  a 
mean,  low-principled  little  fellow.” 

“  You  didn't  think  so  last  winter,  when  I  helped 
you  out  of  that  rent  difficulty  with  old  Benson,”  an¬ 
swered  the  storekeeper. 

“  Let’s  go  and  get  liquor  where  we  needn’t  thank 
Tom  Argali  for  it,”  said  a  rough  looking  labourer,  as 
he  turned  towards  the  door;  “and  remember,”  he 
added,  turning  suddenly,  and  elbowing  through  the 
crowd  to  shake  his  fist  in  the  storekeeper’s  face,  “you 
get  no  more  money  from  me !” 

“  No,  nor  from  me  either!”  echoed  another.  Two 
or  three  passed  out;  but  the  crowd  remained,  seem¬ 
ingly  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  their  refractory 
storekeeper  to  a  strict  account.  During  the  few 
succeeding  moments  of  confusion,  Argali  leaned  for¬ 
ward  with  his  hands  upon  the  counter ;  but  when 
the  noise  had  somewdiat  abated,  he  drew  himself  into 
an  attitude  favourable  for  speaking,  and  requested 
the  crowd  to  listen.  Silence  ensued,  and  he  began. 

“  I  will  tell  you,  neighbours,  why  I  have  altered 
my  sign.  You  know  I  have  been  in  Connecticut, 
and  during  the  week  past  have  journeyed  a  good 
deal  among  the  towns  and  villages  of  that  State.  The 

o  c? 

weather  has  been  as  cold  there,  and  the  snow  as  deep 
as  it  is  here  to-day ;  and  folks  had  hard  work  to 
keep  themselves  warm,  even  with  three  coats  on. 
Last  Thursday  night,  I  had  to  walk  three  miles  on 
business  which  could  not  be  postponed.  It  had 
snowed  hard  since  noon;  and  at  seven  o’clock,  the 

time  I  started,  the  ground  was  covered  to  the  depth 

29 


/ 


436 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


of  a  foot.  Bat  I  plodded  on,  over  the  fields,  reached 
the  house,  and  transacted  my  business.  To  return 
was  more  difficult.  It  was  still  snowing,  softly  but 
fast;  and  while  wading  over  the  buried  footpath,  one 
found  it  very  difficult  to  keep  himself  warm.  I  took 
a  different  route  from  the  one  I  came  by,  which, 
being  sheltered  by  a  ridge  of  hills,  was  not  covered 
so  deeply  as  the  others.  After  travelling  about  a  mile, 
I  perceived  a  light  at  a  distance,  glimmering  through 
the  snow.  Glad  of  the  prospect  of  warming  my  numb 
limbs,  I  hurried  on  till  I  got  near  enough  to  distin¬ 
guish  the  building.  It  appeared  to  be  a  hut,  rather 
than  a  house,  and  the  outward  appearance  wTas  in  a 
more  miserable  condition  than  any  house  that  I  ever 
saw  in  New  England.  I  was  now  near  enough  to 
hear  loud  cries,  which  increased  to  screams,  and  the 
stamping  of  feet  upon  the  floor.  At  first  I  was  appre¬ 
hensive  that  either  thieves  had  broken  in,  or  that  the 
hut  was  a  resort  of  gamblers ;  but  this  opinion  was 
contradicted  by  the  voices  of  women  and  children. 
As  the  screaming  increased,  I  hurried,  as  fast  as  pos¬ 
sible,  over  the  fence  and  up  the  yard,  which  stood 
before  the  house.  The  noise  was  at  its  height  when 
I  reached  the  door:  4  Should  I  go  in  V  I  said  to  my¬ 
self.  A  child  screamed  murder.  I  placed  my  hand 
on  the  latch.  Suddenly  the  door  was  torn  open,  and 
a  woman,  half  naked,  ran  by  me.  I  grasped  my 
crab-tree  cane,  and  rushed  in. 

“  And  now,  neighbours,”  continued  the  storekeeper, 
“listen.  A  man,  all  in  rags,  and  in  a  beastly  state 
of  drunkenness — the  most  disgusting  spectacle  I  ever 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


437 


A  NIGHT  SCENE. 


beheld — was  pursuing1  a  little  boy  round  the  room. 
As  the  little  fellow  leaped,  screaming  about,  over 
broken  chairs  and  stools,  the  father — for  such  he 
was — made  terrible  blows  at  him  with  a  pair  of  tongs. 
He  had  struck  him  on  the  arm,  and  disabled  it ;  and, 
just  as  I  entered,  he  was  aiming  a  blow  at  his  head. 
A  girl,  older  than  the  boy,  sat  on  her  knees,  crying 
and  wringing  her  hands. 

“  My  sudden  entrance  stopped  this  fearful  scene; 
and  while  I  demanded  what  was  the  matter,  the  cliil- 


438 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


dren  ran  and  couched  behind  me.  For  a  while  the 
infuriated  father  seemed  preparing  for  an  attack  ;  but 
in  a  few  minutes  he  dropped  the  tongs,  and  sunk 
helpless  upon  the  floor.  The  wife  came  in  soon  after, 
and  sad,  indeed,  was  the  spectacle,  when  she  and  her 
children  gathered  round  to  thank  and  bless  me. 
There  was  no  stove  in  the  room,  nor  any  fire,  except 
a  little  tan  in  the  chimney-place,  which  rather 
smoked  than  burned.  The  boy  had  neither  coat, 
vest,  nor  shoes  on,  and  the  other  two  were  clad  in 
garments  thin  enough  for  summer. 

“  After  binding  up  the  boy’s  arm  as  well  as  I  could, 
I  prepared  to  depart  But  they  begged  me  to  remain, 
crying  and  exclaiming  that  they  would  be  killed 
when  the  drunken  man  awoke  next  day.  But  I  pro¬ 
mised  to  return  early  the  following  morning,  and 
adopt  some  measures  for  removing  them  to  the  neigh¬ 
bouring  village.  I  did  so;  and  through  the  kindness 
of  some  friends,  who  cheerfully  assisted  me,  the  wife 
and  children  of  the  drunkard  wrere  removed  that  day. 
It  drew’  tears  from  the  eyes  to  see  these  hungry, 
half-naked  creatures,  clapping  their  hands  with  joy, 
at  being  delivered  from  the  power  of  him  who  should 
have  been  their  protector.  Before  I  left  the  village,  I 
learned  that  this  woman  is  the  daughter  of  a  mer¬ 
chant,  who  died  some  years  ago  in  Boston,  and  that, 
when  married,  she  enjoyed  all  the  luxuries  which 
wealth,  beauty,  and  an  apparently  happy  marriage 
alliance  could  furnish.  How  exquisite  must  be  her 
feelings,  when  she  reflects  on  the  scenes  of  former 
years,  I  leave  you  to  imagine.” 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


439 


“  And  what’s  that  got  to  do  with  taking  your  sign 
down  ?”  growled  a  loafer,  who  with  his  back  against 

O'  o 

the  wall  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  had  been  lis¬ 
tening  impatiently  for  the  conclusion  of  the  shop¬ 
keeper’s  story. 

“  It  has  this  much  to  do  with  it,”  answered  Argali. 
“  I  believe  the  liquor  which  that  man  drank,  came 
from  my  store ;  for  every  one  here,  knows  that  I  sup¬ 
ply  both  those  villages,  and  many  others  still  further 
south.  If  you  would  have  told  me  a  month  ago,  that 
I  was  pursuing  a  course  which  brutalizes  men,  im¬ 
poverishes  families,  and  arms  the  father  with  insane 
rage  against  his  children,  I  would  have  thought  or 
cared  little  about  it.  But  I  have  seen  a  spectacle  of 
wretchedness  such  as  no  words  can  portray.  It  has 
haunted  me  ever  since.  I  will  no  more  spread  the 
seeds  of  wickedness.  You  may  do  as  you  please — 
either  patronize  me,  or  patronize  another ;  but  rather 
than  have  the  fearful  account  to  answer  for  of  the 
misery  of  my  fellow-men,  I  will  abandon  my  busi¬ 
ness.” 

“  And  you  may  abandon  it,”  exclaimed  half  a  dozen 
voices. 

“You  are  a  mean,  cowardly,  chicken-hearted  fel¬ 
low  !”  added  a  butcher,  as  he  struck  his  fist  upon  the 
counter. 

“  Call  me  what  you  please,”  said  the  storekeeper, 
“you’ll  never  shake  my  resolution.” 

“  But  we’ll  shake  your  custom.” 

“My  conscience  is  clear,”  replied  Argali.  “Rum 
is  an  evil,  and  I  am  done  with  it.  Tell  me,”  he  ad- 


440 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


ded  in  a  louder  voice,  “  is  there  no  woman  here  who 
has  been  driven  from  her  house  by  a  drunken  hus¬ 
band  ?” 

There  was  a  pause. 

“  And  has  no  one  here,  been  carried  home  beastly 
d runic — draped  from  under  hedges,  hauled  out  of 
ditches,  pulled  through  mud  and  rain,  snow  and 
storm,  until  he  had  lost  all  semblance  of  a  human 
being.  Has  no  one  ruined  his  health  by  strong  drink? 
Has  no  one  lost  his  property  by  strong  drink  ?  Has 
no  one  run  in  debt,  through  strong  drink  ?  And  did 
drinking  rum  ever  make  a  man  rich,  or  wise,  or 
amiable,  or  dignified  ?  Think  over  these  questions, 
before  you  condemn  me  for  taking  the  step  I  have 
taken.” 

“  Lecture  a  little  longer,  Tom,”  said  a  toper. 

“  I’ll  drink  when  I  please,  and  as  much  as  I  please,” 
exclaimed  another.  “  It’s  a  free  country.  If  a  man 
gets  drunk,  its  nobody’s  business  but  his  own.” 

“But  it’s  my  business,  not  to  sell  liquor,”  replied 
the  storekeeper. 

“Mr.  Argali  is  right,”  said  a  woman,  who  had 
listened  attentively  to  all  he  had  said.  “  Many  a 
time  poor  neighbour  Smith  ran  into  my  house  to  hide 
from  her  brute  of  a  husband.  I  wish  all  liquor  was 
thrown  in  the  Connecticut.”  • 

“And  I  too,”  exclaimed  another  woman.  “  I  know 
what  it  is  to  have  a  drunken  son.  Let  men  but  gra¬ 
tify  their  appetites,  and  they  care  not  how  much  suf¬ 
fering  they  bring  on  us  women.” 

The  excitement  had  now  increased  to  a  fearful  ex 


THE  TEMPERANCE  GROCER. 


441 


% 


tent ;  and  but  for  the  self  possession  of  Argali,  he 
would  have  been  pulled  from  behind  the  counter. 
The  company  remained  until  nine  o’clock,  when  per¬ 
ceiving  that  they  had  effected  nothing,  they  began  to 
disperse — most  of  them  swearing  that  “all  intercourse 
between  themselves  and  Tom  Argali  was  at  an  end, 
and  for  ever.” 

Argali  kept  his  resolution.  For  more  than  a 
month,  his  store  was  daily  beset  by  farmers  and  others 
from  adjoining  districts,  who,  after  standing  in  the 
road  to  spell  the  new  sign,  rushed  into  the  store  with 
loud  exclamations  of  “  what’s  the  matter?”  Indig- 
nation  generally  succeeded  astonishment;  and  they, 
like  Argali’s  neighbours,  declared  that  their  connec 
tion  with  the  store  was  at  an  end.  The  consequence 
was,  that  in  a  very  short  time,  Argali’s  sales  were  re¬ 
duced,  more  than  fifty  per  cent.  But  he  would 
neither  yield  nor  compromise  ;  and  after  two  months’ 
abstinence  from  the  store,  the  people  of  the  town  dis¬ 
covered  that  he  could  get  along  without  them,  much 
better  than  they  had  anticipated.  Gradually  they 
restored  to  him  their  custom ;  and  before  the  expira¬ 
tion  of  that  year,  the  business  of  the  Temperance 
Grocery  was  as  flourishing  and  profitable  as  that  of 
the  former  store  had  been.  In  due  time  Argali  started 
a  Total  Abstinence  movement,  which  met  with  suc¬ 
cess,  beyond  his  hopes ;  so  that  he  was  soon  able  to 
number  among  his  friends,  those  who  had  once  sworn 
away  all  connection  with  him. 


GEORGE  SANDFORD. 


Bt  Amerel. 


“  Let  us,  at  all  events,  maintain  a  regular  corre¬ 
spondence  with  each  other,”  said  a  young  man  to  his 
brother,  as  they  stood  by  a  steamboat,  on  which  the 
speaker  was  about  to  step. 

“  Certainly,”  was  the  reply.  But  Charles,  what  is 
that  one  subject  to  which  you  alluded  last  night,  as 
of  the  first  importance  to  myself  ?” 

“  I  almost  fear  to  mention  it.” 

“Speak  freely,”  answered  the  young  man;  “I 
have  promised  to  take  no  offence.” 

“Then,  brother,  to  be  plain  with  you,  I  fear  that 
you  are  imbibing  an  appetite  for  strong  drink,  which 
may  one  day  make  you  miserable.” 

“Nonsense!”  answered  his  brother.  “Do  you  sup¬ 
pose  the  little  that  I  drink  could  harm  any  body?” 

“  Perhaps  not ;  but  remember  that  you  drink  twice 
as  much  now  as  you  did  six  months  ago ;  and  at  least 
four  times  as  much  as  you  did  a  year  since.  What 
assurance  have  you  that  your  present  quantity  will 
not  be  doubled  six  months  hence  ?” 

“  There  may  be  something  in  that ;  but  after  all,  I 

(442)1 


GEORGE  SANDFORD. 


443 


have  no  fears  of  ever  drinking  to  excess.  Even  An¬ 
nette,  who  rates  me  hard  enough  about  every  little 
fault,  hasn’t  thought  of  that  yet.” 

“ Do  you  think  not?” 

“  I  know  she  has  not.” 

“  Yet,  George,  you  told  me  only  a  week  since,  that 
an  unaccountable  sadness  had  lately  mingled  itself 
with  her  words  and  actions,  and  which  it  seemed  as 
vain  for  you  to  attempt  to  dissipate  as  to  explain. 
May  there  not  be  some  connection  between  that 
fact  and  the  subject  we  have  been  speaking  about  ?” 

“  Well,  I  will  think  of  it,”  the  other  replied.  “  In 
the  mean  while,  do  not  be  afraid  of  my  turning 
drunkard  ;  for,”  he  added,  laughing,  “  Annette  will 
watch  me,  I  promise  you.” 

The  two  men  parted.  George,  the  younger  one, 
was  slightly  mortified  by  the  conversation  we  have 
narrated,  although  he  exhibited  no  symptoms  of  his 
feelings  to  his  brother.  Yet  he  could  not  stifle  the 
consciousness  that  his  love  of  liquor  was  gradually 
strengthening.  But  he  quieted  himself  with  the  re¬ 
flection  that  it  would  be  easy  for  him  at  any  time  to 
break  off  the  evil  habit,  and  consequently  he  gave 
little  heed  to  his  brother’s  advice.  Having  been  but 
recently  married,  with  every  prospect  of  happiness  at 
home,  and  success  in  business,  he  was  not  disposed  to 
interrupt  his  present  enjoyments,  by  gloomy  antici¬ 
pations  of  the  future. 

His  brother  Charles  had  gone  to  Europe  on  a  pro¬ 
fessional  tour.  During  more  than  a  year,  a  regular 
correspondence  was  maintained  between  them;  but 


444 


GEORGE  SANDFORD. 


after  this  it  languished,  and  then  ceased.  Charles  re¬ 
mained  in  Europe  three  years;  and  during  the  last 
eighteen  months  of  this  time,  he  heard  nothing  of  his 
brother. 

It  was,  therefore,  with  feelings  more  like  sadness 
and  fear,  than  joy,  that  he  once  more  reached  his 
native  city  after  so  long  an  absence.  As  his  parents 
had  long  since  been  dead,  he  proceeded  to  the  former 
residence  of  his  brother.  George  had  moved,  but 
none  of  the  neighbours  knew’  where.  The  traveller 
walked  rapidly  down  the  street  to  the  house  of  a 
former  friend,  but  he  was  also  gone.  Several  other 
visits  were  attended  with  a  like  result.  He  began  to 
be  alarmed  ;  and,  after  standing  some  time  in  uncer¬ 
tainty,  moved  towards  a  large  store,  for  the  purpose 
of  consulting  a  directory.  While  doing  so,  a  mise¬ 
rable  looking  loafer  reeled  out  of  a  grog-shop,  and 
came  down  opposite  to  him.  Before  our  traveller 
could  step  out  of  the  way,  the  drunken  man  extended 
his  hand,  and  exclaimed — 

“ How  d’ye  do,  brother?— how  d’ye  do?”  at  the 
same  time  wagging  his  hand  up  and  down,  while  the 
other  was  thrust  into  his  pocket. 

The  other  turned  aside,  and  was  about  walking 
on. 

“  None  of  your  shy — shy  tricks,  Charley,”  said  the 
drunken  man,  staggering  from  side  to  side,  and  nod¬ 
ding  his  head. 

Charles  started,  and  scrutinized  his  new  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  intense  interest.  Surely,  this  was  not  his 
brother,  George ! 


GEORGE  SANDFORD.  445 


MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHER9. 


“I  ain’t  drunk,”  he  drawled,  as  his  body  swayed 
to  and  fro,  with  wondrous  flexibility.  “  I  can  take 
care  of  myself— I  can — can’t  you,  Charley?” 

“  Who  are  you  ?”  exclaimed  the  astonished  tra¬ 
veller. 


446 


GEORGE  SANDFORD 


The  other  placed  both  hands  in  his  pocket,  and, 
balancing  himself  as  if  on  wires,  looked  at  Charles 
curiously  with  one  eye,  the  only  one  open. 

“  I’m  George  Sandford,”  he  replied,  again  extend¬ 
ing  his  hand. 

“You!”  exclaimed  his  brother.  “George  Sand¬ 
ford  !”  and  involuntarily  he  raised  his  glass  to  his 
eye.  It  was  so.  The  wretched  object  before  him, 
ragged,  hatless,  and  drunken,  was  the  brother  who, 
at  his  departure  for  Europe,  had  entered  upon  life 
with  every  prospect  of  success. 

Charles  Sandford  accompanied  his  brother  to  his 
residence.  It  consisted  of  but  one  room  in  the  second 
story  of  a  house,  located  in  a  disagreeable  part  of  the 
town.  Here,  amid  destitution  of  the  most  trying  na¬ 
ture,  sat  Annette  Sandford,  holding  an  infant  on  her 
knee,  while  another,  two  years  old,  was  standing  cry¬ 
ing  by  her  side.  The  alteration  upon  her  husband 
had  not  been  greater  than  that  which  grief  had  pro¬ 
duced  upon  her. 

“  Is  the  babe  sick?”  asked  the  elder  Sandford,  after 
the  first  salutations  were  over.  . 

“It  has  never  been  well,  brother,”  Annette  an¬ 
swered.  “  It  wastes  away  daily.” 

“  What  is  it’s  name?” 

“  Charles,”  the  other  answered.  “  We  named  it 
after  you ;  but  it  will  not  live  to  name  you.” 

There  was  a  pause.  “You  have  altered,  Annette,” 
the  brother  would  have  said,  but  he  feared  to  wound 
the  poor  wife’s  feelings,  and  refrained.  Unlocking  his 
carpet  bag,  he  took  from  it  some  food,  and  called  the 


GEORGE  SANDFORD. 


447 


little  girl  to  him.  She  clapped  her  hands  with  joy,  as 
the  welcome  meal  wras  offered  to  her,  eating  it  wTith  an 
eagerness  which  showed  that  she  had  not  tasted  food 
for  many  hours. 

“  A  change  has  come  over  us,  Charles,”  said  the 
wife,  as  she  strove  to  conceal  her  emotion. 

The  brother  nodded. 

“We  waited  long  for  you,”  she  continued,  “but 
you  did  not  come.  Many  a  night  I  have  lain  awake, 
wishing  I  could  but  see  you  once  more.” 

“  And  you  have  suffered  so  long,  alone?” 

“  Oh,  brother,  I  have  suffered !”  she  answered. 
“  If  I  should  tell  you  all  the  shame,  and  sickness,  and 
racking  anxiety — but  I  will  not  complain.  God  will 
deliver  me  some  day  from  this  w7orld  of  misery.  Yet 
it  is  for  my  little  ones  that  I  am  willing  to  live  and 
suffer  here  a  few  years  longer.” 

“  lrou  must  go  with  me,  Annette.” 

“  Where  ?” 

“  To  a  place  of  comfort,  where  you  may  live  as 
you  deserve  to  do.  Your  children  shall  be  with  you, 
with  servants  of  your  own  choice,  and  a  house  to 
yourself.” 

“  But,  brother,  must  I  be  alone  ? 

“  What  do  you  mean,  Annette  ?” 

“Oh,  Charles,  I  scarcely  dare  mention  it !  You  are 
too  kind — yet  my  husband — I  cannot  help  it,  brother, 
but  miserable  and  degraded  as  he  is,  I  love  him 
still.” 

“  He  shall  be  provided  for,  sister ;  but  he  must  no 


448 


GEORGE  SANDFORD 


longer  have  the  opportunity  to  make  life  a  burden  to 
you.” 

“But  I  will  see  him  sometimes?” 

“Yes.” 

“  And  know  that  he  is  taken  care  of?” 

“Yes.” 

The  arrangements  were  soon  completed.  Mrs. 
Sandford  was  transferred  to  commodious  apartments, 
and  every  effort  made  by  Charles  to  reclaim  his 
erring  brother.  For  a  while  there  seemed  little  pros¬ 
pect  of  success;  but  ultimately  he  signed  the  tempe¬ 
rance  pledge,  and  became  as  respectable  and  useful, 
as  he  had  been  worthless. 


r 


* 


BOSTON  COLLEGE 


3  9031 


01 


585900  2 


